


Touch Me I’m Going to Scream

by buffypeppers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Dehumanization, Fluff, HYDRA are assholes, Happy Ending, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kinda, M/M, Misunderstandings, Non-Consensual Body Modification, POV Multiple, Protective Steve Rogers, Shrunkyclunks, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Feels, Touch-Starved, Where did all this fluff come from?, Whump, as in Steve and Bucky meet in CAtWS, bucky can't thermoregulate, changed the title, how did i forget that one, not abandoned just 2020 being 2020, probably what started it all, so he's always cold
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-02-08 02:18:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 83,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21468454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffypeppers/pseuds/buffypeppers
Summary: Only a few days have passed since the Winter Soldier put Sam into a hospital bed but Steve is ready to find HYDRA’s assassin and bring him to justice.Things won’t go according to plan once the Avengers find the infamous man.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Avengers Team, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson
Comments: 407
Kudos: 667
Collections: Winter Soldier and Steve Strangers - Stucky





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT:** Let’s start with how things are going in this AU: Steve and Bucky never met in the 20s but Bucky was still taken by HYDRA in Azzano and made into the Winter Soldier. During the CAWS events, Steve still meets Sam and the two of them along with Nat try to fight HYDRA, who don’t reveal that they infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. decades ago so Steve and the others think that HYDRA is trying to rise again or have worked from the shadows the last decades. Fury is still shot by the WS. Steve, Sam and Nat fight the WS and he gravely injures Sam. More or less where the fic begins.

Steve is trying _really_ hard not to fidget, to control his eyes so they don’t dart around the room with no real purpose. His hands feel dry and irritated, probably because he hasn’t stopped wriggling them for the past hour or however long the meeting has actually lasted.

He’s purposefully dressed in his uniform, wanting everyone to know this is a serious matter with no margin for misunderstanding what he’s asking from them. They’re in one of Stark’s conference rooms, large windows turned opaque, he and everyone else present seated around the table. His eyes study the other three faces, waiting.

“Well?” Steve prompts after what feels like a whole five minutes. His eyes dance from Stark’s purposefully blank face to Natasha’s own… blank face. Thankfully, Barton isn’t making any effort to disguise his frown.

“You’re asking us to embark with you on a mission that’s not been approved by S.H.I.E.L.D.” It doesn’t sound like a question, per se, more like Natasha is making sure she’s heard right.

Steve is on his way of nodding his confirmation but he’s quickly interrupted by Stark’s insouciant tone, “Oh, not just ‘not approved.’” Stark has to make the air quotes and the fact that Steve was already expecting them doesn’t make him feel any less vexed. “Rogers’ mission,’”—Steve scrunches his nose in irritation at the air quotes—“is so brilliant that the World Security Council Secretary himself shot down Steve’s mission. Am I wrong? If there was anything wrong there just tell me.”

Steve doesn’t answer. The hand he has resting on the table balls in a fist and he can almost feel his eyebrows touching one another when he scowls.

“Oh!” Stark gasps like someone who’s just had a revelation, sitting up in his seat at the head of the conference table. “Or is he Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. now that Ni—?”

“Stark, that’s enough,” Natasha cuts him off before he can go any further with his flippant words.

Her voice still ringing in the spacious room, Steve catches Stark deflate before the man can school his features into an unaffected expression. Steve knows Stark and Fury’s relationship was much closer than the engineer likes to show. This fact makes Steve want to dig into Stark’s brain and find an answer to why he’s behaving in such a brazen way when Nick Fury was gunned down just a few days ago.

The four gathered exchange awkward looks. Steve sighs, feeling the little hope he had reunited for this meeting leaving him. “I had to take a shot,” he comments with a self-deprecating smirk. “Either way, even if you’re not going to come with me…”

“You’re going to carry on with your crazy plan,” Barton is who finishes for him, no judgment nor derision in his tone or expression. He’s that predictable, huh?

Steve nods once, not caving under the weight of the three pair of eyes closely studying him. Barton follows with a nod of his own, showing his understanding. “I get it, man,” he comments, hands resting on his lap as he comfortably leans against the back of his chair. “I know you haven’t known that Sam guy for a long time but I’ve noticed what the… incident has done to you two.” His index and middle finger pointing at Steve and Natasha, the two sitting on the same side of the table despite there being a couple of chairs between them.

“Incident,” Steve scoffs, a pained smile blooming while he shakes his head, eyes not leaving the white table. “Sam is in the hospital. _Critical_,” he emphasizes the last word, stomach churning. He’s thankful Stark doesn’t make any comments this time; he’s pretty sure he would have reacted in a much more negative manner.

“He’s getting better,” Natasha reminds him with a soft voice.

“He’s being fed through a tube!”

The room falls silent after the last echo of his shout fades. Steve blinks. His fingers curled into fists have made two indents on the white wood. Steve exhales a shaky breath, leaning away from the table. No one comments on his outburst and Steve can spend a minute into calming his hammering heart. He wants to cover his face in shame but he’s already fucked up too much.

“Look,” Steve starts, trying to at least fake some composure. He chances a glance at the other Avengers, making sure no one is about to leave the room. “That guy was strong and skilled enough to match me in hand-to-hand combat…”

“He beat you, actually,” Stark is obliging enough to correct him. Steve fulminates him with a glare and Stark raises his hands as if saying “sorry, you know how I can be. Keep going.”

“Not only did he kill several skilled S.H.I.E.L.D. agents but Nick Fury himself,” Steve reminds them. “Natasha and I haven’t been able to beat him fighting together and… and he almost _killed_ Sam. This guy has to be stopped.”

Steve lets out a heavy breath, wishing his argument has some effect. He already made a similar one at the beginning of the meeting but it doesn’t hurt to remind them why he’s asking them to follow him one more time into battle.

“You’re looking for revenge.”

Steve blinks a few quick times, probably looking like someone who’s been slapped with no notice. Stark’s words are clear, still echoing in his mind after a long moment of silence.

“Excuse me?” Steve says. He’s still feeling taken aback.

Stark looks him in the eye, serene, fingers interlaced with his hands resting on the table before him. “You want to catch this guy for what he did to Wilson.” Steve scowls at Stark’s confident assertion but can’t seem to find words to say anything back. “You want to find this Winter Soldier guy and break his teeth in for what he did to your friend, probably kill him with your own hands, too.”

Strangely enough, Stark sounds comprehensive, that’s why Steve doesn’t react right away. Plus the reality that what Stark is saying is completely true and Steve has just realized it. He’s spent the last days by Sam’s door, fantasizing about all the ways he could kill the HYDRA scum. And he had failed to discern his own motivation for the actions he was so set on effecting.

He doesn’t deny Stark’s affirmation, can’t find his lips shaping such a flagrant lie.

“I wouldn’t blame you,” Barton chimes in, expression just as understanding as the engineer’s. “I mean, he only shot Nat on the shoulder and I still want to have the privilege to kill him myself.”

_Only shot._ Steve snorts at the surreal words.

He makes one last sweep of the room, taking in the expressions of his teammates and feeling a burst of hope. While Stark looks pensive, chin resting on one of his hands, Nat seems far away, eyes cast down. Barton looks like he’s about to say something but then stops and takes a look at the other two people present, as if he’s making sure everyone else is on the same page as him.

“We will need time to craft a real plan,” Natasha says, finally lifting her eyes and facing Steve. She glances at Barton and then at Stark; they both nod their confirmation. “No jumping from quinjets with no parachute.”

Steve allows himself a minute to bask in the moment, sagging against the chair with his lips parted.

“I won’t,” he finally assures with a tiny smile.

“Maybe Thor will visit Earth before the mission and he’ll lend a hand and hammer,” Stark chimes in with a cheeky smile. Steve is experiencing such relief that he allows a snort at Stark’s comment, even though he doesn’t feel that lucky.

The relief is short-lasting and is rapidly replaced by dread and a slow-boiling wrath pooling inside his stomach that promises to be his guide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the song Cold by Aqualung & Lucy Schwartz
> 
> EDIT: Changed the title to Touch Me I’m Going to Scream bc of My Morning Jacket’s song. Go listen to the two parts it has rn!
> 
> This is my nanowrimo so it isn’t finished yet but I really wanted to share at least the prologue with someone! While you wait for the rest of the work to be posted you can take a look at my other fics or drop a comment and subscribe to this one :D


	2. Chapter 1

A few birds are chirping near his spot, their song monotonous but not distracting. All in all, their presence works in his favor, the same way the deer that’s roaming some feet in front of the tree where he’s perched on works in his favor. There are no prints on the pristine snow around or near his hiding place—at least not ones left by human feet. For there to be any footprints it would require for someone to have ventured into this part of the forest and he knows for certain that no one has set foot near this zone—not even him.

Snow has been piling on his head, shoulders, lap and thighs for almost three days; still, he hasn’t moved unless he’s had to adjust his grip on the rifle or readjusted on his perch, something he’s needed to do for the optimal fulfilment of his mission while he monitored the area.

A sparrow flies past his left side, close to brushing his cheek, but the Soldier doesn’t flinch. He keeps his muscles in tensions to prevent them from shivering, his cold breath so shallow the little breath cloud is almost imperceptible. The bird makes one final circle over the dense crown of the tree, finally landing on the same branch as the Soldier, though not near enough to be touched even if he had outstretched an arm.

The man leans back a little and moves the scope of the rifle away from his face. He eyes the little animal, its head tilting in one direction and then the opposite with sharp movements. It opens its beak and chirps once, tilts its head the opposite way and chirps again. The Soldier observes the rapid movement of its abdomen when it breathes. His body tilts forward, just a few inches, but enough so he can observe more carefully the sparrow. The animal looks at him but doesn’t scarper; it studies him with similar curiosity, eyes gleaming.

A loud sound breaks the peace that had blanketed the forest for the last hours. The Soldier startles violently enough that he almost falls from the tree. The bird takes flight while some of the accumulated snow over the Soldier’s body plummets down—following his white mask to the ground and covering it. The night before, he had decided to take it off. It hadn’t been a requirement to fulfil the mission.

He looks down at it, blinking slowly, feeling like he’s been hit over the head and woken up from a deep trance.

He took off the mask.

He got distracted.

It downs on him how confused that makes him. The Soldier is an infallible weapon. What would his handlers think about HYDRA’s perfect weapon getting diverted from a mission by a simple sparrow? What conclusion would the HYDRA agents that make the team that’s in charge of the Soldier’s maintenance draw if they knew he took off a mandatory piece of his uniform on a whim? He had felt like he wasn’t getting enough oxygen so he had unlatched it and latched it back again, this time around his arm. It’s ridiculous; the mask is made for perfect air filtration.

Perhaps the Soldier should suggest they wipe him; too many days have passed since the last one and he can feel himself getting erratic—he’s actually having some trouble estimating the exact amount of days. It goes beyond animals distracting him or his neurons firing in the wrong direction, causing a nonsensical caprice to take over his body. Who is he to ensure that next time he will not only falter when he has to administrate a final blow to a HYDRA enemy but maybe he will even help them out?

He shakes his head, more snow falling to the thick white blanket covering the land. He needs to oust these abnormal ideas from his brain. Make suggestions to a HYDRA scientist? Come to the aid of a HYDRA enemy? His handlers must never pick up on any of the weird thoughts that have been crossing his mind these last days. The Soldier will make sure they don’t.

Focusing his whole attention on the two women that come into view—each one carrying a rifle—the Soldier waits patiently for an opportunity to eliminate his two marks. The older one—the mother, his handler had briefed the Soldier, though he hadn’t supplied the photograph with a name—has sharp eyes, but he knows she isn’t expecting what’s about to come. Mother and daughter are here to hunt, not the other way around.

They make their way to the dead deer and inspect the animal, a hole right between eye and eye. The two women interchange words but the Soldier isn’t paying them any attention. The younger one is stroking the neck of the dead animal, expression turning softer. Her lips shape words the Soldier’s brain doesn’t register; its rusty cogs are turning, his mind propelled in a different direction than the one his brain has been programed to go. He wants to understand: why is she being kind to the corpse of a creature whose death she has caused?

He feels something different from the permanent cold that reigns over his body and the strain from keeping said body tense so it won’t quiver. That something is a sharp pain behind his left eye. He ignores it, following the two women through the rifle scope.

He takes a deep breath.

Exhales.

He pulls the trigger.

Watching through the scope, the Soldier sees the older woman’s body take a second to realize what just happened, then it collapses over the deer’s cadaver. The daughter needs a little longer to understand what just took place. She calls out for her mother, one time, two times until she sinks her knees in the snow by her mother’s side. She struggles to turn the body, silent except for her harsh breaths which the Soldier can see and hear from his strategic position. The Soldier can tell that even after a couple of minutes the daughter is still struggling to understand what just happened; comprehensible, since she didn’t hear any shots being fired.

Everything’s silent now, free of birds tweeting or people hunting. The daughter covers her mouth with a trembling hand, twisting her midriff to inspect her surroundings, maybe catch a glimpse of whoever just killed her mother. She doesn’t spot the Soldier in his white uniform and tac gear. Trembling and with eyes wide open in shock she tries to stand up but instead ends falling backwards, sinking deeper into the snow.

The Soldier sees her clearly through the scope, dark hair covering her pale eyes. He can take the shot, finish the mission, return to the base with the two bodies, and let his handler debrief him, as it’s protocol.

The woman gets to her feet and, after taking a last look at her mother’s inert body, she runs, rifle and hunted-down deer left behind. He follows her form with his rifle.

_Shoot. Complete the mission,_ he can hear his instructions inside his head but can’t execute them.

His flesh hand trembles.

He loses the window of opportunity and doesn’t take the shot.

The woman gets lost amid the trees.

The Soldier finally lowers the weapon, his heart beating ferociously against his chest. The Soldier didn’t follow his orders and his body already knows nothing good is coming after a mistake of such proportions.

The man shivers and the wind howls.

“I think he’s glitching,” the HYDRA tech voices his observation. He’s been staring at the Soldier for a long time, face scrunched in thought.

His tech partner snorts while she finishes typing something in a computer. “Of course he’s glitching; he hasn’t been on the Chair for almost a month. According to his file, that hasn’t happened in decades.”

HYDRA has been in dire need of their weapon lately.

The Soldier listens to their conversation from his spot near the fireplace. A fire is crackling, flames dancing and casting large shadows, and the Soldier shuffles a little closer without the other two people in the cabin noticing. His flesh hand has been thawing for the past few minutes, just as the joints of the metal one have become easier to control.

“Well, the Chair has been vastly improved since then,” the man comments without much interest on the matter. “I mean, we have had something to do with its latest upgrades,” he says with a brilliant smile, nudging his coworker with an elbow to the ribs. The woman huffs and shoves him away, still typing with fast and expert fingers.

“He needs to be wiped clean and put into cryo for some time.” It sounds definitive and the man accepts it after a roll of his eyes.

The two sink into a companionable silence. The man rises from his chair by the woman’s side and, after retrieving his phone, he lets himself fall on the couch that faces the fireplace. He doesn’t pay the Soldier any attention, fingers flying over the screen’s keyboard. The Soldier feels some muscles relax a fraction, the warmth behind him partly drying his clothes.

He arrived less than an hour ago, informing the agents that the mission took a day longer to be completed because the women’s hunting trip took place a day later than anticipated. The Soldier didn’t mention the daughter having escaped, sure that the HYDRA agents would take notice of the one body count instead of the two as it was established from the beginning.

“What do you think they will do to him?” the man asks, eyes still on his phone. He scrolls down and huffs a laugh. “You have to see this video, Viv—I’m sending you the video.”

Viv doesn’t respond, the Soldier flexes his fingers, and the man on the couch snorts another laugh.

“You think they’ll—?”

“Okay, we can finally start taking off the arm,” Viv interrupts him. “I’ll ask not to be put in more missions with you; I haven’t had a minute of peace in the last week.”

The man sits ramrod on the couch and huffs an offended breath. “It’s been four days.”

“It didn’t feel that way to me,” the woman comments under her breath. The cabin is silent enough that the other man doesn’t need enhanced hearing to catch the words.

“Soldier, come here,” Viv instructs pointing to a chair placed by her equipment. Her tone has changed drastically and there is no exasperated yet friendly banter.

The Soldier doesn’t immediately move away from the fire and a second later he finds himself being tugged by his flesh arm toward the machines and computers Viv has been manipulating. “Place him on the chair,” she instructs. “Not that one, Xin, the other chair.”

The Soldier sits on the cold, hard chair, so tense he’s practically vibrating. Xin handles some cables behind the chair. He’s not going to be wiped, he’s gathered that much; despite that and still wearing his half-frozen clothes, a bead of sweat slides down his back.

“I don’t think I’ve ever detached his arm before—thought it wasn’t possible,” Xin comments from his spot down on the floor, untangling cables and plugging them in their respective sockets.

“It’s possible, it just takes some time. We will have to secure him to the chair, though,” Viv informs him matter-of-factly, one finger playing with her lower lip as she clicks and types a code into a monitor.

“Ah, that’s why the chair is bolted to the floor,” Xin adds, getting to his feet and dusting off his lab coat. A self-satisfying smile pulls his lips upwards when he examines his handiwork. “All set.” Viv gives him a thumbs-up.

“The boss said to wait for him to arrive since he’s going to be the one to, you know, oversee us while we administer the punishment. Either way, he and the team have to come to take Ms. Clarke’s body.” Xin makes an affirmative sound. “But gave orders to take off the arm.”

“Maybe we should ask Eric for a PowerPoint 'cause right now I can’t remember that briefing.”

Viv laughs. The Soldier wonders, if he knew who Eric is (or perhaps remembered him) would he, too, be able to laugh at the private joke, as an alternative of clutching the chair’s metal arms with a death grip, hand going bone white.

Viv and Xin instruct for him to stop squirming so they can tie him to the chair: a strap goes over his chest, other two gripping tight his legs, a special metal band over the bionic arm so he won’t be able to use it, and one more going over his flesh arm. He complies, docile. His heart is like a rabbit inside his chest.

“I think we’re good to go,” Xin declares with an assured nod, looking at the bonds that secure the Soldier to the chair. Nowhere to go.

“Yes, please, I’m done with this place,” Viv moans.

The man on the chair tenses up even further, trying to prepare himself.

The procedure begins, the Soldier tasting blood at the back of his hoarse throat after barely ten minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to post this chapter so to give a better idea of how the story is going to be narrated. One chapter Steve, another Buck—unless inspiration takes me in a different direction, which hasn’t happened yet.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told myself “wait until next week to post another chapter, you haven’t finished the fic.” But, welp. I should have seen it coming.

Cloaked by the moonless night, Captain America and his team trek through high snow, wind howling through naked trees and green pines, masking every noise they could make; communication is out of the question, right now. It’s not enough to break their resolve.

“If it goes down one more degree I’m blasting out of here,” Stark notifies them through the comms. Barton snorts a quiet laugh that crackles in their ears. Steve doesn’t pay any mind to the comment.

According to Natasha’s info, they should be nearing the safe house. He takes one more look at the screen of his phone: the blue arrow that represents their position is getting closer to the red dot that represents the HYDRA property. Steve’s heart pumps with anticipation, blood rushing in his ears.

Less than two days ago, Natasha’s intelligence supplied her with information about an incident that had taken place in an Indiana town. A woman, Amanda Clarke, had arrived at one of the town’s diners, out of breath and visibly distressed. She had asked for someone to call the police; her mother, Maggie Clarke, had just been killed. Natasha’s “guy” had said that Amanda had needed to be stopped from fleeing the diner after realizing she had left her mother in the woods. The cops had arrived quickly and, led by Amanda, the authorities along with an ambulance had arrived at the place where Maggie’s body was supposed to be laying. They only found a dead deer and Amanda’s own hunting rifle.

Nat’s informant had got an opportunity to talk with Amanda and the woman had described how she hadn’t heard any shots or seen anyone else in the clearing. It wasn’t much information, Steve will admit that, but after two weeks of scheming and planning without getting any clues of where the Winter Soldier could be hiding, Steve was eager enough to follow _any_ clue.

“There,” Natasha says with an even voice. Steve believes his voice would have faltered if he had tried to say anything at the moment.

His heart beats with violence against his chest. Steve takes a deep breath and steps forward, not even aware that he had stopped walking. His blood is boiling and he’s ready to face the Soldier—Sam’s bloody face jumps at the front of his mind and Steve feels his control falter, fists clenching at his sides. His march becomes more urgent, his three teammates having to jog through the snow to catch up with him.

The booby traps they encounter are easy to deactivate or just avoid. The cabin has been built in such a secluded and hard-to-reach place that HYDRA probably felt too confident and thought it would be enough for the place to stay unsurveyed. Maybe when it was built they weren’t counting with Tony Stark using his technology to locate them.

Steve lets slip a vicious smirk.

When they’re close enough to discern a figure through a window, Steve raises a hand. When everyone has stopped, he crouches and waits for the rest to follow suit. Stark opens his faceplate to let Steve see his unimpressed expression; all the same, he makes an effort and crouches with them, planting a metal hand on the snow in front of him so as not to topple over.

“Stark,” Steve addresses, “I need you to scan the cabin and tell me how many people you detect.”

Stark does just that, turning his head in the direction of the cabin, probably asking J.A.R.V.I.S. to localize all the occupants. “Two,” Stark announces after a few seconds. Steve nods.

“Okay, then this is probably going to be easier than we thought.”

“I think you just jinxed us, Captain,” Natasha teases him. Even in the dark, Steve can see her playful smirk; he answers with one of his own.

“Stark, you blast the door open. Hawkeye, you use your Taser arrows on the HYDRA agents; Nat and I will take over after that.”

“It’s actually called electro-arrow,” Barton clarifies after the three have nodded their agreement. Steve stares at him in silence. “But Taser-arrow is better.” Pause. “Though I’m not sure if it would be legal to use a registered trademark.”

After that, the four Avengers rise to their feet and, with smooth and synchronized movements make their way to the cabin.

“I’m not liking this,” Stark comments through their intercoms, voice strained. Steve agrees with him on this one but doesn’t dare to voice it. It’s not only because he fears someone will hear him, but because sudden superstition blinds him.

Once they’re in front of the door, Iron Man charges his blasters (even if the agents hear it, they won’t have enough time to do anything to stop what’s about to happen) and shoots the door off its hinges. Hawkeye only has to fire one Electro-arrow, the door having already put the woman out of commission.

Steve enters, immediately followed by Natasha, Barton and Stark. Natasha picks up the woman, knocked out cold, and drops her on a chair. Barton takes rope out of his backpack and hands it over to Natasha who proceeds to use it to tie the woman firmly to the chair. Steve lifts the man from the floor and follows suit, dragging his chair near the unconscious woman.

“I don’t like this, Cap,” Stark says, faceplate open. He’s looking at the bloody face of the HYDRA agent, pensive and somewhat troubled. “None of these idiots look like a _Winter Soldier_ to me.”

Steve had reached the same conclusion the moment they incapacitated the two agents in two minutes.

With the two agents secured to the chairs, the Avengers inspect the cabin. It’s an open plane and quite luxurious. The only thing that stands out is the equipment on the far wall, an ensemble of monitors, computers, and an odd-looking chair. Stark is already taking a look at all of it, keeping a quiet conversation with J.A.R.V.I.S.

“I think I’m going to snack something while we wait for these two to wake up,” Barton says over his shoulder, head inside the fridge. Steve grunts an unintelligible response.

He doesn’t know how to feel. Part of him is furious that they didn’t come in time, while a different part feels defeated. They have to take with them the two HYDRA operatives and hand them over to S.H.I.E.L.D., but then Pierce will know that Steve acted against orders and dragged with himself two of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s best agents. He had expected a similar outcome but he’d had in mind that they would be coming back with the Winter Soldier himself—dead or alive.

Just when he sinks on the couch, cowl resting on his left, Steve hears Stark make a sound of excitement, like a kid who’s been given for Christmas exactly what he wanted. Steve turns over to see what is going on and that’s the exact moment when Stark pulls a book from the bookcase and said bookcase moves to reveal a…

“Yes! I love secret passages!” Barton cheers, forgetting on a kitchen counter the sandwich he was assembling. He jogs to the library where Stark is waiting for him with a raised arm so the marksman can high five his armored hand.

“Me, too,” Stark says while they peer into the darkness. From where Steve stands, he thinks he can make out a flight of stairs.

Steve and Natasha make their way to their teammates, curious and eager to see the new discovery. Stark lets out a long whistle. “It looks like there’s a whole level down there.”

“Maybe they have a sex dungeon,” Natasha surprises them saying, an eerie smile pulling at her lips. The three men look at her in petrified silence until Natasha laughs at their faces. “We better take a look. I think Clint and I should stay here with our prisoners while you two go down and inspect.”

Steve nods his agreement. “Come on, Stark.”

“Only if you call me Nancy,” Stark quips. Steve understands the reference and he probably would laugh if it wasn’t for the sense of foreboding he’s experiencing, a knot in his stomach pulling him down the stairs.

“Actually,” Stark calls out before they take the first step. Steve turns and looks at him, expectant. “I think Natasha should be your partner.” Nat raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been all buddy-buddy lately; it seems smarter.”

Steve and Nat share a look and shrug. “I guess it’s wiser to not mix confined spaces and Stark.”

“Oh my God! Was that a wisecrack?”

Steve doesn’t answer but neither prevents Stark from catching his little smirk. He and Natasha descend the steps. The staircase ends in a hall with stone walls and stone ceiling. There’s probably some kind of illumination but they don’t want to warn anyone of their presence. Maybe Steve still has a chance to make pay the Winter Soldier for putting his friend in the hospital.

With their steps resonating on the damp walls, Steve and Natasha move swiftly until the corridor spits them into a wider chamber. Natasha uses her flashlight to illuminate better for the two of them. There are a bunch of crates in one corner (ones they will inspect and take care of if needed) and a rat in the opposite. There is a metal door at the left with an inscription almost completely erased by the passage of time; the right side takes you to a different hall.

“You think we should split?” Natasha asks, eyeing one side of the room and then the opposite. “Cover more ground.”

She doesn’t sound that convinced and Steve understands her uncertainty. They can’t know if HYDRA reinforcements are on their way and the four of them aren’t on an official Avengers or S.H.I.E.L.D. mission so no one is going to come to their aid. They have to cover ground as quick as possible.

“You take the left, I’ll go right.”

Natasha gives a firm nod and pushes through the heavy door. Steve doesn’t wait any longer and takes right, his own flashlight illuminating his path.

“Hey, guys,” Stark says through the comm. “Just so you’re aware, Clint broke one of his hearing aids.”

Steve hears Natasha sigh and then she says, “How?”

“Sleeping beauty woke up and tried to bite Clint’s ear off. Good thing she wasn't expecting to chip a tooth with his aids.”

“Okay, Stark. Don’t take your eyes off those two and try to get some information out of them,” Steve instructs, legs striding faster as he sees where this hall leads to. “What they’re doing here, where is their boss…”

“Why do they have a sex dungeon,” Natasha chimes in and Steve can picture her smirk.

“How are things going on your end, Romanov?”

The empty cells at right and left start blurring.

“Boring. It looks like a storage room but it’s almost empty, only some old equipment remaining. I’m not sure they use this sex dungeon anymore.”

Steve takes a right turn, a different door coming into view just some feet away. He halts to a stop, having a hunch that this one won’t lead him to a dead end. The door looks heavy and it’s shut with a metal bar. Steve puts an ear to the door, trying to hear anything. Silence.

“You want me to come, Rogers?” Natasha asks and Steve can already make out through the comm that she’s walking, probably in his direction.

“Yeah,” he answers a little winded.

He places the steel bar on the floor as silently as possible. There’s no chance the door, old and rusted, won’t screech when pushed open.

“What’s that sound?”

He called it.

Steve steps into the room, lips parted and ready to give Nat an answer when the air is knocked out of his lungs and he lands on his stomach after being flung against a wall. His flashlight rolls on the ground, illuminating bare male legs that are striding with purpose towards Steve.

“Steve, what was that?” Natasha asks more urgently but Steve can’t answer at the moment.

Recovering from his previous surprise, Steve gets his hands and knees under his body and lifts himself from the ground just in time to block a kick to the stomach, closely followed by a fist to the face. The blows are so rapidly fired that Steve can’t find a moment to grab his shield from his back. A kick followed by a fist followed by another kick and then an unexpected headbutt that comes out of left field and probably breaks Steve’s nose.

Steve recuperates quickly from the blow and jumps back, expecting another hit or two, but they never come. With the flashlight still on the floor and his sight not having had a moment to adjust, Steve needs a second to understand why the man isn’t attacking him again.

The man in question is completely naked save for a pair of boxers. Steve hadn’t had an opportunity to pay real attention to the guy’s appearance but now he has no difficulty spotting the blood that’s covering him. For a second he feels like he’s been transported to a completely different place, one he has no context to attach to.

The man takes an uncoordinated step back, blinking furiously with a scowl creasing his forehead, and then tumbles forward. Steve reacts on pure instinct and catches him before he face-plants on the hard ground. He lowers the stranger to the floor. Maybe all the blood is a product of the guy’s missing left arm. Steve stares in horror at the mangled shoulder that’s left, scars reaching the left side of his chest and ribs. Even through his gloves, Steve can tell that the man’s body is as cold as an icicle.

He hears Natasha’s hurried steps before she finally appears on the doorway and uses her own flashlight to inspect the room and its two current occupants. “Is he a prisoner?” is the first thing Natasha says, already having made sure that Steve is okay.

Steve understands why she would reach that conclusion, taking into account that the man is sporting green, blue and black shades from head to toe, as well as gashes that vary on their severity.

“I don’t know,” Steve answers sincerely.

The man opens his eyes with some difficulty and labored respiration and without missing a beat strikes Steve right on the face. He’s weaker than a minute ago but his strength is not the one of a normal man. Steve pulls away from the dark-haired man, letting him slip to the cold floor. He hovers over the stranger, Natasha’s flashlight pointing right at his face. Steve refrains from gasping.

“Steve, I think he’s…”

“Yeah,” is the only thinks he says, voice strained and body tensing up as if it’s preparing for a fight. It wouldn’t make a lot of sense; it looks like someone made it to HYDRA’s assassin before them.

“You think an enemy decided to exert some revenge on him?” Steve asks, looking at every visible wound, trying to convince himself this is as satisfying as if he had inflicted them with his own hands.

Natasha doesn’t answer right away, the beam of her flashlight sweeping the room. Steve sees chains and shackles on the far wall but nothing else, the room bare and unforgiving. Regardless of that part of him that thinks “good, that’s what someone like him deserves,” there’s a small piece of him that’s trying to understand what exactly happened here. It doesn’t add up.

“I don’t know what to think,” Natasha answers.

Her lantern returns to the dirty face of the Winter Soldier; it seems he has passed out. Steve has the vicious wish for the Soldier to recover consciousness just so he can probe his battered side with his booted foot. None of his suffering was caused because he almost killed Sam.

“Hey, how are things going down there?” Stark questions, pulling Steve out of his dark thoughts.

“We found him,” Natasha relays the news. She doesn’t look as happy as someone who just caught a serial killer should feel. She seems like someone trying to solve an equation with not enough data. Steve wants to ask her what she’s thinking but knows now it’s not the best moment.

“…You found who?”

“The Winter Soldier,” Steve confirms, lifting the dead weight and throwing it over his shoulder.

“Clint asks if you’re sure it’s him.”

“He has enhanced strength, for starters,” Steve explains, following Natasha back to their teammates, “and he hasn’t died from hypothermia down here.”

“How did you beat him?” Stark asks, tone curious and devoid of its usual cockishness.

“I didn’t, someone else already did it before we got here. I think I just tired him out.” He makes a pause, thinking back about the fight. “He head-butted me but knocked himself out.”

Steve hears Stark laugh without the need of the comm. “Oh, Clint is gonna love that one.”

“And he’s missing his metal arm,” Natasha adds. 

Stark doesn’t ask anything else, most certainly having enough information to mull over for the next five minutes or less and something to tell Barton. He and Natasha keep silent on their way back. Even though the Soldier’s body is cold as ice, Steve feels like his skin is being branded with a hot iron where it comes in contact with the other man.

They finally climb the final stair—Steve looks back at the dark space behind the library and feels relief that he won’t be going down there any time soon. Barton and Stark hover near him, trying to get a glimpse of the Winter Soldier’s face. Steve dumps him on the couch and, with his free hands now he resets his broken nose. He brushes the tears off and looks down at the Soldier. His teammates are as lost as him.

“This feels anticlimactic,” Stark voices everyone’s thoughts. He seems to have that gift, even if he could do with some more tact.

The four Avengers stare at the unconscious man, unsure of what to say or do—what’s the procedure? Steve knows he’s not the only one thinking that this wasn’t supposed to go down like this. They were going to find the Winter Soldier and have an arduous fight that would take for them to act as a team to beat HYDRA’s most impressive goon. Instead, they acquire two useless HYDRA pawns and find the Winter Soldier already defeated, locked in a damp cell.

“You found him down there?” Barton asks, reading everyone’s mind and voicing the one piece that doesn’t fit.

“Yes. Behind a metal door secured by a metal bar,” Steve fills in the details. “He attacked me the moment I set foot in the cell.”

Steve wishes Sam was here with them, giving his own insight on the situation.

“We better get going,” Natasha breaks them off their musings.

They set to work.

The two HYDRA agents are tied up and muzzled. Their eyes are wide open, clearly fixated on the Soldier’s form. They share a panicked look. Steve files it for later. Maybe they're scared of him.

“Clint and I will go bring the quinjet,” Natasha informs and a minute later they’re gone.

The cabin stays silent while they wait. Not really worried about the two people tied up, Steve and Stark hover over the Soldier’s prone body, heedful that he doesn’t regain consciousness and tries one more time to kill them. The guy is in such bad shape, lying face down and bleeding over the couch cushions, that Steve has to remind his overworked brain of all the things this man has done—and those are only the ones they know of. All the same, Steve turns him on his back.

“How do you tie a one-armed person?” Stark ponders out loud. Steve responds with a dry look. “I’ll watch a video tutorial.” This is followed by his faceplate being shut.

Steve considers it safe to take his eyes off the HYDRA bandog and grabbing the tied-up people by their shirts—both kicking and trying to break free—he drags and dumps them in front of the door. The sooner they get away from this place, the better. His eyes keep returning to the Soldier’s slack face.

“Keep an eye on them,” he instructs Stark.

Steve goes to the first closed door which leads to a bathroom. He inspects quickly, not even sure what he expects to find. It’s clear these people don’t live here so he doesn’t find any personal belongings beyond an unlabeled bottle of pills, two toothbrushes and toothpaste. Next, he steps through the remaining door; it opens into a spacious bedroom with two queen beds. There are some clothes scattered around. He inspects the drawers, looks under the beds, searches for loose floorboards… He finds nothing. Then he collects the two visible traveling bags and carries them to the living room, dropping them in front of the couch.

He hears Stark scoff behind him. “They packed up a bag like someone going on a short vacation.”

The fire looks more alive; Steve assumes Stark must have manipulated it while he was exploring the cabin.

Steve unzips one of the bags and pulls out the clothes, throwing them by his side without any care. When he finds nothing useful he searches the exterior pockets. He doesn’t find anything in the first one and then repeats the process with the blue bag. He tosses all the clothes out and explores the inside pockets.

“Anything juicy?”

“Here.” Steve hands over a red pen drive.

“Oh, thank you. I didn’t get you anything, honey.” Steve feels lightheaded after the events of the day so he decides that laughing at one of Stark’s jokes won’t be an idea worse than what he’s already done behind S.H.I.E.L.D.’s back.

“You can give it back then,” Steve teases with a tired smile.

Stark draws the little device to his armored chest and takes a step back. “No, no, I’ll buy you flowers. Now I’ll feed this to my A.I. Later we can read some HYDRA Christmas tales. What do you think guys?” Stark asks the two gagged. The man looks at him with a scowl and the woman, even with her bloodied face, finds it in her self to convey her annoyance with a roll of her eyes.

“That bad, huh?” Steve says. Stark huffs a short laugh but doesn’t seem in the mood of drawing out the interaction. They all know what the three have been doing the last days.

It isn’t much longer until they hear the quinjet land and then Natasha and Barton are giving them a hand with the two prisoners. Steve carries the Soldier into the quinjet’s medical bay and deposits him into a bed; the other two are deposited each in a seat and then secured to them with the seatbelts.

“We’ll be taking off any minute now,” Barton informs, already having replaced his broken hearing aid with a new one. Natasha accommodates herself on the co-pilot seat.

Once Stark is out of his armor, the two remaining standing pick a seat for the takeoff.

“You know something isn’t right, don’t you?” Stark comments off-handedly. Steve is aware that the engineer is looking at him closely, waiting for a reaction. Steve looks at him, lips forming a thin line.

“I do,” Steve confirms. “I just can’t put my finger on what exactly,” he admits through his teeth, finally voicing it. It’s not only that something is wrong, is that Steve cannot figure out what is it. It’s like it’s staring him right in the face.

“Well,” Stark says, eyes flying over Steve’s face. “Maybe we will find something useful in that little gift you gave me.”

This time, Steve thinks he sees Stark’s flippant banter as what it is; a way to say “don’t worry, we will find something,” but without using those exact words. Maybe all of Stark’s camaraderie has been lost in translation.

Steve answers with a grateful smile. Both men look at each other for a second, both as if seeing the other for the very first time, or at least in a different light. Both glance in the opposite direction when the atmosphere turns a bit too heartfelt for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and don’t hesitate to drop me a comment, I’ll love every one of them!
> 
> You can take a look at my other fics if you haven’t yet and you liked this chapter.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is such a short chapter. Leave a comment and make me happy after work!

Recovering consciousness is rarely a pleasant experience. Lately, he has wondered if it’s the same for others. Perhaps everyone’s head is meant to feel like something that’s seconds away from cracking open and letting spill his charred brains out. What he is pretty sure of is that people sleep in beds and not in a cryo chamber ergo they don’t have to go through thawing. Maybe—the Soldier has had this thought playing on his head for a long time (one has to take into consideration that for the Soldier even a week is deemed a long time)—if he slept in a bed, with blankets and pillows, his extremities wouldn’t feel frozen all the time.

In fact, the Soldier has been thinking about a lot of things—he would go as far as to say that he has _opinions_ (he can already imagine his handlers and other agents laughing at the mere notion.) He prefers his black uniform over the white one; he likes the sunshine and _dislikes_ gavage feeding. He’s reached the conclusion that there is a fault in his programming and he should have informed his handlers a long time ago about it.

But, you see, these opinions he’s suddenly having, these likes and dislikes… they’re truly distracting and compelling. One moment he’s extending a hand to touch the dirty fur of an alley cat while he has to wait for his mark, and suddenly he’s questioning if he too has a mother. He never reaches a final conclusion with that one; maybe science is that advanced nowadays that they can create people. Maybe… maybe…

Maybe his head is finally going to explode and he won’t have to think so much (not that it’s of any help.)

The Soldier opens his eyes and quickly shuts them back, convinced that bamboo shards just stabbed his brain through his eyes. He tries to swallow but his mouth is desert dry, a faint taste of iron still remaining. He tries to move and realizes he can’t. He doesn’t know why—he doesn’t know a lot of stuff, that’s true, but something he is sure of thanks to numerous experiences is that he will need a moment to get reacquainted with his body.

Keeping his eyes barely open, the Soldier tries to get used to the light. As usual, he doesn’t know how much time he spent in the cell; time is kind of an abstract concept for him most of the time (_hmm, that’s ironic,_ his brain supplies.)

“Why is he doing that?” says a voice he doesn’t recognize. The Soldier doesn’t know if he’s being asked the question; either way, he doesn’t have an answer.

Eyes finally adapting, the Soldier studies his surroundings through slitted eyes. He recognizes the room as a medical bay and he also knows it’s not one he’s ever been in—at least not since his last time in the Chair.

A blonde man crosses his field of vision and the Soldier feels his heart stop. It’s a weird, new experience that he will analyze once he isn’t in enemy hands. Meanwhile, he fakes sleep.

“He wasn’t doing that a second ago,” says the same voice, sounding annoyed and agog at once. The Soldier wants to put a face to the voice but he doesn’t risk losing the element of surprise, should he need it.

He feels something come into contact with the skin of his arm and suddenly he understands the man’s words. He is so used to keeping his muscles rigid, controlling the constant shivers, that his body commanded by habit simply stops any movement and the bed stops rattling.

“Does he have an off switch? What did you just do?”

The man doesn’t withdraw his hand. In fact, he goes as far as wrapping his palm around the Soldier’s wrist. There is no memory in his brain about anyone ever touching him—willingly—without a needle or knife in the other hand. The Soldier will later find this as the explanation of why he isn’t able to contain a full-body shiver.

Understanding that it’s pointless to keep pretending, the Soldier opens his eyes. Looking over his body he sees that he’s tied to the bed. Even if he wasn’t, he feels like there isn’t a lot more that his body would be able to go through. At least he’s on a bed—he has a pillow under his head, too. Another irony: being in enemy hands is a way more pleasant experience than being with his handlers.

This reminds him that for now there isn’t anything he can do; HYDRA will come to retrieve its property. For the time being the Soldier can just wait. He’s not naïve to think his visit will be a walk through the park (he’s not completely sure that’s how the saying goes) (this thought prompts his brain to wonder if he’s ever walked through the park without having to eliminate someone there) (an image flashes before his eyes: a dark-haired girl with two braids and bright blue eyes.)

The Soldier loses his train of thought and his brows draw together. Then he sees the Captain and his brain gets back on track: he’s not naïve to think these people will treat him like a guest; still, it won’t be anything worse than what will happen when HYDRA takes him back after letting himself get captured on the first place.

“We have some questions that you better answer,” the Captain says, hands on his belt and voice matching his stern face.

Another man enters the room followed by a redhead woman and approaches their two companions; finally, the Soldier has a face to put to the voice. Everyone seems pretty grim.

The Soldier doesn’t say anything. Even if he wanted—which he doesn’t—he knows his voice is still too scratchy for anyone to even attempt making out his words. He blinks at his captors. He has the fierce wish to tell them that he will endure any torture they put him through. He’s been thoroughly trained.

The four share a look and then stare him down again.

“Are you the Winter Soldier?” the Captain asks.

The Soldier notices the heat the bodies are releasing and his back sinks a little further into the mattress.

The Captain repeats the question, voice raising and taking a step closer to the Soldier. He doesn’t answer right away, instead locks eyes with the blonde man. The Soldier has the feeling the Captain is not good with interrogations, much less outright torture. Also, his body is the one that runs warmer as a result of his enhancement, the Soldier deducts. There’s a sharp pang in his chest when he realizes his body works the opposite way.

“Are you—” the Captain starts over but the Soldier stops him with a nod; there is no need for anyone to raise their voices more than necessary. His head feels like an egg that’s being boiled and seconds away from cracking open and spilling all its content to the outside.

“Well, we already knew that,” the man with the hearing aids points out.

The Captain seems to take a minute to reorganize his thoughts before asking his next question. “Did you kill Maggie Clarke two days ago in Indiana?”

The Soldier feels himself close off. He doesn’t want the questions to continue and if they do… well, maybe he will disobey. When would it be better than now that he isn’t with HYDRA?

He doesn’t answer and the silence is followed by a staredown between Captain and Soldier. The blonde’s nostrils flare in annoyance.

“He clearly did it,” the man with the goatee states. His arms are crossed before his chest and, even though he tries to appear unconcerned, the Soldier is sure that he’s aware of the fragility of his non-enhanced body in comparison to the Soldier’s own. He could crush him even in his poor state. But he doesn’t want to. “Cap, it’s obvious he’s the guy we’ve been looking for.”

The man in the goatee doesn’t seem aware that his Captain is lost in his own head. It must be quite the unpleasant place, the Soldier considers while inspecting his irate expression.

“Steve,” the woman starts saying but the Captain doesn’t give her the chance to continue. He takes a step forward and grips the Soldier’s scarred shoulder with his gloved hand. The Soldier tries to ride out the wave of nausea without showing weakness.

“I don’t care. He’s going to talk.”

The Captain pushes down on his shoulder and a quiet whimper escapes the Soldier. He chokes on air. He’s good enduring pain it’s just that his stump is his weak spot (the Soldier would like to think his only one but lately he hasn’t been acting like he’s preprogrammed to.) This time he tries to move away from the pressure but he’s fastened to the bed. He finally realizes the powerless position he woke up to find himself in—he’s grateful no one can hear his erratic heartbeat.

The hand is rapidly withdrawn but the Soldier knows they already have one way to make him if not cooperate then at least hurt for a while. He doesn’t find it in himself to feel angry about it; he’s tired.

He realizes then how heavy he feels, his body a rock that drags him down. His eyelids droop and for once he wishes for unconsciousness even if he has to wake up and go all over this again. Maybe for once, it will feel like sleeping and not like someone hit the back of his head with a brick so he won’t be a hindrance.

Voices raise somewhere afar but the Soldier has already surrendered and sleep drags him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you people to read everything that I have already written of this fic


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this chapter bc the last one was so short and this one is too.  
(and bc im an ao3 addict)

“He just… fell asleep,” Stark breaks the silence.

Steve’s skin itches all over, it feels tight, _wrong_. The fingers on his right hand are slick with the Soldier’s blood and he wipes it off on his pants with more vehemence than necessary. His eyes pulse at the rhythm of his heart. Steve feels the compulsion to leave and take a long, hot shower. That’s why he stays where he is and waits for his breathing to calm before he speaks up.

“Nat, are the other two taken care of?”

“Yeah. We gave them their own fancy cells,” she says.

Steve nods his head, eyes still on the dark-haired man. He looks at his assaulted body and his mind screams at him that he’s missing something major and it has to do with the Winter Soldier’s role in HYDRA.

“We won’t tell S.H.I.E.L.D. about this until we find out what is actually going on,” Steve informs his team, making a stop on each set of eyes so he can get their nod of understanding.

Steve starts unlatching the reinforced straps that bind the man to the bed. He picks him up and carries him out of the quinjet and enters the elevator, the other three Avengers following him inside.

“To Hulk’s reinforced room?” Stark questions and when Steve nods his approval the elevator descends.

The floor is chilly due to not having been used for a long time. Dr. Banner already has his own apartment in a different level and, apart from not being in the States, he hasn’t needed the room in months. The Hulk-proof door opens to let them in and Steve journeys to the reinforced bed that’s for Dr. Banner before and after his transformation; there’s a different one for when he’s a green brick shithouse, three sizes bigger.

This time, Steve places him on the bed with more care.

“Stark,” Steve calls out. Stark hums from his left side. “You have any reliable doctors?”

“Yeah.” They’re about to leave when Stark says, his words leaving Steve with one more thing to ruminate, “I wonder why his wounds aren’t healing if he’s enhanced.”

“What?” Steve croaks, turning to gape at the others—Barton seems taken by surprise as well—and then back to the unconscious man. Now that it’s been pointed out, Steve wonders how he didn’t notice it sooner. An hour has passed and the Winter Soldier’s contusions and other numerous marks are still visible. Moreover, they haven’t healed in the slightest.

Natasha nears the bed and takes into hand the man’s only arm. She inspects closely and carefully the wounds that cover it and then sits on the edge of the bed so she can take a look at the shoulder that misses an arm. She sweeps one finger over the mangled skin, inspects her digit and then brings it close to her nose.

“Nat, why are you smelling his blood?” Barton asks, tone carefully free of any criticism.

“Because it’s not only blood,” Stark is who answers the query. Addressing Natasha, he says, “You noticed it too?”

“What? What else is there?” Steve fires out, feeling frantic and needing at least one answer before the end of the day.

Stark studies him for a split second and then walks to the door. “We better discuss it somewhere else.”

“Give us a clue at least, man,” Barton pleads but he’s the first to exit the room and the rest follow suit. Steve chances a last look to the bed—the man still only in a pair of boxers—and then he enters the elevator.

Steve has too much energy to sit on a chair so he hovers near the opaque windows. “Stark, say whatever you have to say, don’t beat around the bush.”

Stark stops his babbling with a knowing smirk. “Okay. Well, here is what I have. J, pull up our newest roommate’s thermal image.”

A mostly blue hologram pops up on the middle of the table.

“What am I looking at exactly?” Steve questions, trying to make heads or tails out of the image that hangs before them. It has a human form, he gets that much.

“Are you saying the Winter Soldier is a reptilian humanoid, like Zuckerberg?” Barton voices before Stark can give the Captain an explanation.

Stark stares at the marksman with an amused expression and then shakes his head. “I scanned the Soldier when we got him to the med bay,” Stark starts explaining, hand pointing at the holographic image. “This is how his thermal image came.”

Steve stares with wide eyes, the significance of the engineer’s revelation sinking in. The image spins before him and he inspects it with new eyes.

“Reminds you of anyone?” Natasha asks the room at large. She shares a knowing look with Stark as if they’ve already reached the same theory.

Steve probes his brain and it finally hits him. “Wait. Nat, are you implying that he’s like Loki?”

Natasha answers with a shrug of her shoulder. “Loki’s thermal image was completely blue—cold—, a lot like this one. And we know he isn’t from Asgard like Thor.”

“And Thor never told us where they adopted Loki from,” Stark cuts in. “And it’s not implying,” he tries to explain, “it’s only one theory. Look at that; it’s like he’s a human-shaped icicle. How is he still alive?”

“We know he’s enhanced,” Barton makes an input, eyes not leaving the blue hologram.

“His wounds aren’t healing,” Stark fires back.

“Maybe they used a different serum on him,” Steve speculates out loud. His teammates turn their heads in his direction in complete synchrony. “When Erskine died he took the formula for the Supersoldier serum to the grave.”

“It’s possible,” Stark agrees with eyes that are already lost in who knows how many different theories. His head snaps up. “Oh, I almost forgot: there are tracking chips inside him.”

“Of course there are,” Natasha mutters under her breath, loud enough for her teammates to hear.

“My team will extract them when they arrive; we don’t want to cut an artery.”

The other three make faces of disagreement.

“What about Nat sniffing his blood?” Barton asks. Natasha directs an annoyed look at him.

Stark makes a gesture for her to explain. “His stump was coated in something more than blood; probably some of his other injuries, too.” Natasha lets that sink in. “I don’t know what, though.”

“Me neither,” Stark adds. “But I’ll have it analyzed when my people are here.”

“You’ve already called someone?” Steve asks surprised, eyebrows flying up.

“Yep. I have my lawyers taking care of the NDA the doctors will have to sign. The moment they set foot in the Tower, we’ll get the Soldier to the medical floor.”

Steve scowls at that, conflict clear on his face. He already knew they would have the man’s wounds treated but… Sam is on that medical floor. He doesn’t like the idea of Sam being even in the same building that the man that almost killed him, let alone allowing medical treatment to be provided to the same guy. He better not dwell on it because there’s nothing he can do about it.

“Do the other two need medical attention?”

“No. The woman only needed some tissues for her bloody nose,” Natasha informs. Steve is not sure that is really all but he knows Natasha wouldn’t risk their lives, even if they don’t deserve such good treatment. “They each got a luxurious prison cell,” she comments sending Stark a meaningful look.

“What? You want me to throw them in a dungeon?” _Like the one they have_ is clearly implied.

“Nothing they don’t deserve,” Barton points out, something all of them can agree with.

“You think that’s why they threw him in there?” Stark asks. He leans back, chair reclining, and rests his cheek on his hand. “You think HYDRA itself despises the Winter Soldier but won’t let go of him because he’s too efficient?”

“What kind of despicable things has someone to do for HYDRA to abhor them?” Barton voices the question everyone has already in mind. The Avengers share a troubled look, wondering what they’ve brought into the Tower.

“Okay,” Steve says trying to break the tense atmosphere. “Let’s go do something more productive than theorize about a murderer. J.A.R.V.I.S., inform us if the Winter Soldier or his two associates do anything suspicious.”

“Of course, Captain,” the A.I. answers with a pleasant voice.

Less than a minute later, the conference room is emptied. Steve closes the door with a click and takes a moment to decide what to do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the love, guys!


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say something about posting one chapter per week? Well I’m bored so here you have another.

As already stated, coming to is never a pleasant experience and this time is no different. The Soldier summons strength from where shouldn’t be any left and rolls to his side, just in time for the sick to dribble to the floor and not choke him to death. Though there isn’t much sick so he would have been able to survive the unpleasant experience.

Allowing himself a second, the Soldier flops to his back and tries to breathe. When he finally takes a look around, the Soldier finds himself in a windowless room. It’s large and with one more bed that looks two sizes bigger than a king; apart from that, there isn’t a lot of furniture. Vision still blurred, the Soldier spots two full bookshelves, a couch with a coffee table in front of it, a dresser, and two closed doors, one of them which he supposes must lead to a bathroom.

The Soldier needs an embarrassing amount of time to drag his body to the edge of the bed, elbow digging into his thigh when he slumps forward. Using the bedside table to prop himself, the Soldier rises to his tired legs. He spots the cameras right away even if they’re hidden. He feels like waving at them but thinks it wiser not to taunt his captors. He should just wait for HYDRA to find him. Looking at the bed—it even has blankets though he was lying over them—the Soldier has a fleeting thought: _Do I want them to find me?_

His brain discards the notion pretty quickly. It’s ingrained in him the reality that he does what his handlers need. That’s a weapon’s purpose and he’s meant to be the best weapon. He should be _proud_ of it—he has shaped the century.

Entering the bathroom, the Soldier stares at the big bathtub. The part of him that remember his training and programming, that knows he’s not meant to use a bathtub _or_ a shower, forces him to search the room for a hose. There isn’t one so he steps near the tub and hovers over it, a knot forming in his stomach. He reminds himself for the nth time that these people, even if they’re _the enemy_

_(who’s enemy?)_

they aren’t HYDRA. No one here has forbidden him from washing off. Rules are different here.

The Soldier sits on the rim, legs threatening to fail him, and turns on the water.

“Excuse me, Mr. Winter Soldier,” says a voice.

The Soldier jumps startled, bruises and cuts protesting when skin tugs at them. The Soldier looks around but finds it empty except for himself. He scowls up at the white ceiling.

“Who?” He’s not sure if his grunt was intelligible, voice gruff from disuse.

“Hello, my name is J.A.R.V.I.S. I’m Mr. Stark’s Artificial Intelligence,” the British voice introduces itself. The Soldier’s eyes widen a fraction at the last two words. Somehow, he knows what that is… and he finds it fascinating.

“Hi.” Unintelligible, again.

The Soldier cups his hand and fills it with cold water so he can drink it and clear his throat.

“Mr. Winter Soldier, I would advise for you not to wash yet,” the voice informs but the Soldier knows it’s not a mere suggestion. He turns off the water, containing his face from making a disappointed expression or his lungs emptying themselves in a sigh.

He’s getting up from the tub when J.A.R.V.I.S. speaks again. “Mr. Stark needs a sample of the substance coating your wounds. If you wait a moment, I’ll send for someone to bring you the utensils needed so you can do it yourself. If you don’t collaborate I will have to inform Mr. Stark and the rest of Avengers present in the Tower so they can take the necessary measures.”

The Soldier stares dumbfounded at the ceiling. He nods his understanding.

“Very well,” the voice finishes saying and the room falls silent once again. The Soldier kind of feels the absence of the cordial voice like something physical that’s been removed from the place. It was pretty soothing to listen to. If the Soldier didn’t know better, he wouldn’t have guessed that he was being held captive.

The man exits the bathroom and waits sitting on the bed. A few minutes pass until the door hisses open. And again, the Soldier’s eyes widen with recognition and fascination.

“Robot,” he rasps. He had been expecting a person, his imagination going as far as picturing Viv and Xin as the people who would have come through the door.

“Indeed,” J.A.R.V.I.S. confirms.

The robot has a test tube in its claw and inside of it a bunch of cotton swabs. When it’s close enough, J.A.R.V.I.S. instructs for the Soldier—helped by Dum-E—to collect a sample from the fluid covering his wounds. The Soldier entertains the idea of telling them what he knows of it but discards it almost instantly; a prisoner isn’t supposed to collaborate. He must stay silent until HYDRA comes to collect him.

(His head hurts something awful and he blinks the tears away.)

“Thank you for your collaboration.” The robot beeps as if it’s agreeing with the A.I. The Soldier can only nod at the two of them, still feeling queasy. “You can now clean up, sir, if you still feel like it.”

The Soldier blinks, words and their meaning taking a moment to fully register. After that, he tries to draw a bath as fast as possible, without losing his footing and braining himself in a counter. He starts with cold water but it doesn’t last long until he turns on the hot water. Getting rid of his boxers, the Soldier gets into the tub, water not covering more than three inches. The man shivers with his head resting on his knees while he feels his injuries pulse. He hugs his knees to his chest.

The man inhales deeply, ignoring the cracked ribs because there is… silence. He’s taking a bath with hot water. No mission is waiting for him once he exits the bathroom and no handler. No cryo-chamber to freeze his body. No Chair to burn his brain. For the time being, he’s keeping his memories and not following orders. It’s true that he’s a prisoner but he’s not sure he wants to leave these rooms.

The Soldier tries not to panic when he realizes that it technically means he wants to run from HYDRA. Tries to reason that he’s only waiting for them, he’s not doing anything wrong (aside from getting himself caught in the first place.)

The man lies back and sinks into the raising water, the tub big enough that it allows a grown man to stretch his legs and there still is some space left. He unclenches his muscles, something he has to put thought into, and rolls his shoulders, hissing when every part of him screams with discomfort. It doesn’t matter because for once he’s not cold to the marrow.

This is what waking up must feel for other people—mostly. His body is aching and his stump burns, and, yes, the headache is still present and he feels dizzier than before… but it could be worse. So much worse.

The Soldier rubs at his eyes, blinking heavily. He looks up and freezes, hand grabbing instinctively the rim of the bathtub, ready to shoot out of it. He relaxes the slightest when his brain registers the face as the one of the Captain. The man is scowling down at him, flustered. He takes a step backwards and hands over a grey bathrobe. When the Soldier doesn’t move to take it, the man drops it on the counter.

“I’ll be outside,” is the only thing he says before he leaves.

Water already lukewarm, the Soldier takes off the plug and loses himself for a moment on the swirls going down the drain. He fell asleep. Had it happened during a mission or in a HYDRA facility… Shaking his muddled head (no sense in thinking about HYDRA when they aren’t here), the Soldier gets out the tub and picks up the bathrobe left for him to cover with. 

Putting on the robe is a bit tricky but he gets it over his shoulders and knots it on the front. He’s mesmerized by how soft it feels. It catches on some of his injuries and yet it’s the best thing to ever touch his skin. A cough draws his attention and reminds him what he has to do.

The Soldier observes the Captain with curiosity, wondering what he’ll do. He acts unsure, as if he himself isn’t certain of what should be his next move. This is until he takes a deep breath and stares the Soldier down. He notices that he’s not in his uniform anymore; looks clean too. The Soldier stops his mouth from asking if he too took a bath.

“You’re going to come with me,” the Captain states. Declining doesn’t seem like an option so the Soldier doesn’t waste any time trying to negotiate—not that it is a skill he has. He nods but the Captain doesn’t move. The Soldier frowns in confusion.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., could you please have someone bring clothes in our guest’s size?” he instructs after clearing his throat and turning sideways. He catches his mistake and turns again to fully face the Soldier. He can see that the blonde’s cheeks are pink now.

The Soldier stands near the bed and waits. How J.A.R.V.I.S. knows his measurements he’s not sure but he’s not programmed to ask either. Sometimes not being expected to talk is a relief.

“Pardon me, Captain, but getting the clothes will take some time,” J.A.R.V.I.S. informs. The blonde man frowns in annoyance.

“Then have someone pick something from my closet.” It seems like a decision that pains him.

The Soldier feels the other man watching him like a hawk. It’s odd; HYDRA agents always ignore his presence unless he’s being debriefed or questioned about an already completed mission, and even then it sounds like they’re introducing commands into a computer.

The robot, Dum-E, finally arrives. The door opens and Dum-E wheels until it’s in front of the Soldier. The Captain is tense and the Soldier has the suspicion that the man is stopping himself from taking the bot and hiding it from the Soldier. He feels like laughing at the image but only takes the offered garments and drops them on the bed so he can give a tentative pat to the bot’s metal side. The corners of his lips pull up until he catches himself and slides a blank mask over his face.

The Captain stares at him with arms crossed over his chest. His facial muscles twitch and the arm muscles tens up; he wants to do or say something. He doesn’t. The Captain turns on his heels and exits the room, leaving the Soldier alone to get dressed. Even though he’s had training for situations where he may need to act with only one arm, the Soldier isn’t used to it. Besides, when his punishment includes detachment of the arm he still doesn’t do more than lie down and wait for someone to collect him.

Once he’s completely dressed—socks included—the Captain reenters, most certainly informed by the Artificial Intelligence that the Soldier is ready. With a gesture of his head, the Captain waits for the Soldier to exit the room, too. The blonde looks at the Soldier’s socked feet and scowls disapprovingly. The Soldier doesn’t know if he’s done something wrong. Again, he has to force himself to remember that he isn’t with HYDRA and little mistakes won’t get him into trouble. Still, logic doesn’t untie the knots that have formed in his stomach and throat.

With a determined step, the Captain starts his way to the elevator, Soldier following closely at the same time as he tries not to keel over. He trails behind, hand burrowing inside the pocket of the sweatpants. It’s soft and he can’t help but run his fingers through it and then over the sweater. He frowns and grunts with displeasure.

A subtle itch makes him turn to his left (_clever_, he thinks, _picking my weak side_) once the elevator doors are closed. The Captain is staring at him with an intense expression, making a single word pop into the Soldier’s brain: vitriol. Apart from the disgust he’s rather used to (lately, he’s wondered what do people see when they’re looking at him, what brings that specific emotion to the surface) the Soldier can read an interrogation etched in the expression.

“Sorry,” he makes the word crawl up his raw throat. He tugs at the dark sweater so the Captain can see the stains his blood is leaving. He frowns at it as if he doesn’t understand how the apology and the stains can be connected. The Soldier had hoped that showing remorse would be enough for the Captain to know he isn’t deliberately dirtying up his clothes. 

The Captain looks up at him, lips parted but scowl remaining, deepening, even. Then, he’s shoving the Soldier against the wall, handrail digging uncomfortably into his lower back and cabin shaking.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at,” he hisses and pressure increases against the Soldier’s trachea. “And I don’t care but you better stop right now. You don’t deserve to breathe.” He exhales against the Soldier’s face like a rabid dog, catching himself getting off topic. He can see the man’s jaw clench painfully. “You put my friend into the hospital, you shot Natasha… Just give me an excuse to rid the world of you.”

As fast as he pinned him to the wall with an arm, he pulls away letting the Soldier slide to the cold floor. The Soldier wishes to touch his surely bruised throat but doesn’t. He looks up with a blank face, already good enough at reading the Captain to be certain it will vex him more than if he did anything else. The blonde takes a warning step forward but the Soldier doesn’t flinch back. Eventually, when they’ve finally reached their floor the Captain exits the elevator without a word, nor does he wait for him.

The Soldier almost loses him but finally catches up with the Captain in front of a pair of sliding doors. They enter and the Captain guides him to another door, Stark in his metal armor already waiting for them, only his face visible.

“Oh, you made it,” the man chirps, metal hands clapping together once. The Soldier’s headache increases and he probes at his temple. “So.” An unnecessary pause. “Has the Captain told you anything about what is going to happen?”

The Soldier shakes his head.

“Aren’t I lucky.” The man’s face is too tense and the Soldier doesn’t like it one bit. He starts talking about doctors, surgery, tracking chips… The Soldier can’t concentrate with his head threatening to explode. He blinks moisture from his eyes so he can bring into focus the two men. He doesn’t see the Captain. The room spins for a split second.

He feels something prick his neck. His hand, as if in slow motion, rises to touch the skin, fingers probing at a needle until it falls to the floor. His throat works to make an interrogative sound. “No,” his voice drawls, body swaying to one side and then the other while he tries to regain balance. His stump smashes against a wall and he hears himself shout like his mouth is in one room and his ears in another far away. He falls to a floor that doesn’t feel as firm as it’s meant to be.


	7. Chapter 6

Steve observes the Winter Soldier crash to his knees as if he’s sitting on his couch just watching a movie—for a moment he doesn’t feel like someone physically present. He hears him moan out with pain, hand going to grip his bleeding stump, and Steve finally snaps out of it. He wishes not to be able to hear what he’s chanting under his breath.

“What is he saying?” Stark asks, armor opening up so he can hastily step out. It closes and stays active and ever vigilant. Stark makes to approach the kneeling man and Steve’s arm shoots out on its own accord, successfully stopping the engineer from taking another step. With a reassuring half-smile Stark removes Steve’s arm from his way and crouches. Steve tenses up, still expecting the other man to attack.

The Soldier’s voice fades gradually until he can’t hold his own weight and topples over. One more time, Steve catches him before his face can smash against the floor.

“Those numbers, were th—?”

“Yes.” He loads the body into his arms, ignoring Stark’s troubled gaze, pressing like a thorn when Stark doesn’t look away.

(The skin through the fabric feels almost as cold as the first time Steve carried him.)

Stark is not one to be ignored, though. “What chair is he talking about?”

“How should I know?”

He stalks through the doors that J.A.R.V.I.S. opens for them, Stark by his side. Once they reach the doctors, Steve feels a weight lifting off his shoulders when he leaves the Winter Soldier in their capable hands. He’s already turning away from the gurney when Stark, after saying something quick to his med team, follows him.

“I already got the substance from his wounds analyzed.” Stark is still looking over his shoulder while Steve tries to ignore the drive that is forcing him to turn and go back. There is so much he doesn’t know, so much that doesn’t add up, and it’s making him vibrate with energy.

“Yeah?” Steve looks at him sideways with real interest, slowing down so Stark doesn’t have to jog to keep up with him. “What is it?”

“A mix of things. I won’t bore you with the details but…” He presses a finger to his chin while he mulls over his answer. They enter the elevator, both consciously giving a wide berth to the wall that is now carrying a bloody print—the syringe has already been disposed of. Steve presses the button that will lead them to the gym. “It’s a bit like the opposite of a spray-on nanofiber skin.”

Steve stares at him, not completely sure he understands. “It keeps his wounds from healing?” Stark nods his head vigorously, clearly excited by the idea of such a thing existing. Steve won’t point out how creepy it is that he’s smiling like a loon over an invention that prevents someone from healing.

“I got in touch with Bruce 'cause I wanted to bounce some ideas off him and also get his input.” They have already reached Steve’s destination but he’s too invested in the information to even attempt a step out of the cabin.

“Now we think that, after we get some samples of his blood and urine—my med team will take care of that before his body can eliminate all of it—we will find similar components in his system that are currently _preventing_ his body from healing properly.”

“That’s…”

“Evil?” Stark supplies.

“For starters.” Steve blinks owlishly, surprise getting the better of him. He rubs his tired eyes. “_Fuck._ I _hate_ HYDRA so fucking much.”

Stark snorts at the feeling his words pack and pats the taller man’s shoulder. “By the way, what are we doing with the other two? We won’t be sending them to S.H.I.E.L.D. H.Q. any time soon so…”

“I don’t think they know much,” Steve declares, finally making his way to the lockers. “I’ll send Nat and Barton later to interrogate them but I don’t think they’re from the top of HYDRA’s food chain.”

Stark nods in agreement; he’s clearly thought the same thing. “I’ll tell Nat and Clint to ask them about the Winter Soldier, specifically. Taking into account that they’ve spent at least a week working with him they’re bound to know something more than what we know about him. If he only works with HYDRA, what circles he moves in…”

“Good idea.” Steve asks J.A.R.V.I.S. to inform the two spies about the decision and Stark pipes in with some specific questions he wants Natasha and Barton to ask them.

Steve opens his locker and gets out his training clothes. “You looked at the pen drive yet?”

“Nop, too engrossed in the sample Dum-E brought me. What is that face? Why are you making that face?”

Steve shakes his head with pursed lips. “It’s just…” He sighs with annoyance. This has been circling his mind since he saw it happen. Tying his shoes he finally answers, “He petted your robot.”

“He petted Dum-E?” Steve is glad Stark looks as taken aback as he’d felt at the moment it happened. Stark snaps his mouth shut when he catches himself gapping.

“Yeah, your robot gave him clothes and then he…” Steve gesticulates widely with his arms, wanting to express somehow how bizarre the situation had felt. “He patted it as if it was… I don’t know, his dog bringing him his morning paper?” Steve blushes at the stupid comparison.

“Huh.”

Steve wants to demand something more than a ‘huh’ but he’s mindful of the fact that Stark knows just as little as he currently does. The Winter Soldier just doesn’t fit the image he—that _all of them_ had constructed in their minds. He’s supposed to be a ruthless murderer, a man lacking any empathy and humanity. Maybe Steve had in mind the image of a movie villain, always glaring suspiciously, maybe even kicking puppies. He would have understood not finding a caricature of a villain but this… A man falling asleep while taking a bath, petting a robot when it delivers him clothes, saying _sorry_ for staining Steve’s clothes with his own blood… Even his voice doesn’t sound as he’d imagined it, too soft even when hoarse.

“You think he’s acting?” Stark throws the question, having been through a similar thought process as Steve. “Maybe he thinks that if he acts as a good boy we will get all buddy-buddy with him and get him a sentence-reduction?”

Steve’s face scrunches up with doubt. “Yeah, it sounds stupid. He’s getting a life sentence. _Or_,” he raises a finger as well as his tone, catching Steve’s attention as intended, “maybe the Winter Soldier isn’t all that much.”

Steve looks at him with another expression of doubt but waits for him to elaborate. “What? It could happen! You start a rumor to scare your enemies away about an unstoppable assassin and you build it for decades, making your character as badass and horror-striking as possible until a day comes when it has turned into a legend and people will believe anything you add to the ghost story.”

Steve’s first instinct is to contradict Stark but he doesn’t act on it. Could it be true? Could the Winter Soldier be part story part fact? Steve thinks back to what he’s thought of the Soldier when they’ve been in the same room. Apart from the three fights they had engaged in, the Soldier has been docile and cooperative. Steve can’t just forget that his behavior could be caused by a number of different reasons but his mind has been already prompted in a direction he’s been trying to avoid.

“Are you trying to say that the Winter Soldier is just another HYDRA weapon…?”

“But with the difference that he’s a man wrapped in a fancy fairytale to scare off HYDRA’s enemies? Yes, that’s what I’m trying to say,” Stark affirms, gaining momentum. He plops down on a bench, hands gesticulating and words firing out with speed; Steve sits on the bench in front of the scientist, leaning on his knees. “This balderdash about a killer from the sixties—no disrespect to Natasha and the ‘intelligence community,’” (Steve isn’t that pressed over the air quotes this time) “but I’m not convinced that guy is almost a hundred years old, serum or no serum. The assassinations have in all probability been executed by different operatives, ones with additional help.”

Steve nods, turning over in his mind his teammate’s theory. It makes sense and Steve wouldn’t be telling the truth if he denied having had a similar hunch about the Winter Soldier’s story that Natasha had told them.

Steve gets up from the bench dressed in his gym clothes and heads for the door, still weighing up Stark’s words. “There’s not a lot we can do right now. I’ll call for a meeting once Natasha and Barton have gathered some information from the two HYDRA technicians; maybe we’ll have new information to help with that theory.”

He has his hand around the doorknob when Stark calls out. “Hey, if you wait a minute we can spar.”

Steve regards him with a surprised look. Things seem to be progressing between them lately and he doesn’t want to be the one to bring it to a halt. He nods and waits for Stark to get ready, eager to get his mind off all the useless theories about the Winter Soldier.

He reminds himself that the man is heavily sedated and being prepped for an operation; there’s nothing for Steve to do right now so he better put the pent-up energy to use.

“Captain Rogers, your immediate assistance is needed in the medical wing,” J.A.R.V.I.S.’s voice cuts over the music. Steve stands up from the dumbbell bench, directing an alarmed look at Stark who’s already stopping the treadmill and is drying his face with a towel, his expression just as alert. Stark raises a questioning eyebrow and Steve detects the unease in his tense posture.

“We better get going,” Stark advises.

Without stopping to dry off his own sweat, Steve races to the elevator, doors already opened for them.

“J, what’s going on?” Stark demands, still catching his breath.

“The Winter Soldier has attacked one of the operating room assistants, Sir.”

“_Shit_,” Steve curses under his breath, stopping himself from punching a hole through one of the walls.

_Shit shit shit._

“Has he killed anyone?” Stark is the one to voice the dreaded question.

Steve feels his whole body tense up, fingers curling into fists and nails digging into his palms. They shouldn’t have left him unsupervised. Jesus Christ, he’s the fucking _Winter Soldier!_ God, they really got deceived and underestimated him. He shouldn’t have let his mind wander from one idea to another; he should have just paid attention to the facts they already had!

Time stretches while they wait for the answer.

“No one has been gravely injured, for now.” The words don’t do anything to abate their distress.

“Tony, we shouldn’t—”

“The sedative was supposed to work on him for far longer,” Stark raises his voice over Steve’s, successfully cutting him off. Steve can hear the strain on his tone and understands it for what it is: Stark controlling himself so as not to panic. “My team knows what to administrate an enhanced hu—”

“We weren’t sure if he was enhanced!” Steve can’t help but shout, voice bouncing against the metal walls. His hands itch for his shield, unsure of what they’ll find once they make it to the operating room.

“I made sure,” Stark says, volume rising but not making it to outright shouting. If Steve keeps acting with as little control, though, he knows Stark will shout back and all the effort to see eye to eye will be for nothing.

Steve breathes in, then out. “Stark, why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“Because we already were almost one hundred percent sure he was enhanced, Rogers, just not with the same formula as you,” Stark explains between teeth. Steve can almost hear the voice from Stark’s mind counting down to ten. Steve doesn’t insist but rage is still bubbling inside his chest.

“I had to make a decision,” Stark says, calmer this time, almost resigned. “He has tracking chips inside his body; HYDRA could find him any moment now no matter the fact that J.A.R.V.I.S. is trying to cloak the signal.”

Steve hadn’t known about that.

The doors open and they shoot out, outright running down the halls with everyone else stepping away to let them pass. Steve hears the ruckus before he finally pushes the doors wide open and burst into the room. Stark follows close behind and the two men need a second to take in the scene that’s taking place before them. Steve’s brain starts by registering the overturned operating instruments and tables, followed by the man that’s being assisted by his colleagues, a cut bleeding on the back of his head. His eyes end on the figure crouching on the other end of the room.

“What the…” Stark sounds as bewildered as Steve feels.

“He shouldn’t have woken up,” says one of the surgeons. She steps closer to them, hands shaking but face not giving away her emotions. “We must have miscalculated when we made—”

“Lola, hey,” Stark stops her short. He sets a hand over her shoulder. “I completely understand. We’ll discuss it later, when there isn’t a drugged man with a scalpel in his hand and another one with a possible concussion.”

Steve is already stepping closer to the Soldier. The man is completely naked and some of his disinfected and stitched up injuries are visible from where he’s cowering—there is no other word for it. The Winter Soldier shakes with his body drawn in, only his hand sticking out from his body, a sharp scalpel threatening whoever tries to get too close.

“Hey,” Steve tries to get his attention even though he’s not sure the man is lucid enough. His hands are raised at chest height, palms open so the other man can be assured Steve isn’t armed. “Hey, look at me.”

_This is bizarre,_ his mind supplies. Steve isn’t sure anymore if he can trust any of his presumption about HYDRA’s Winter Soldier; in less than a day, the entire image Steve had built about the assassin has been discredited and he feels off-balance.

The man’s feverish eyes are obscured by sweaty strands of hair and they jump from one person to the next one. His only hand has turned bone-white around the scalpel.

“Soldier,” Steve calls out, this time his voice packing authority. The man’s head snaps up—Steve hears when his breath catches in his throat. “I won’t harm you.”

The Soldier scowls and his nose scrunches up as if the words smell bad.

“No,” he grunts.

“I promise that these people are here to help you,” he tries to explain. Steve’s voice has taken a soothing cadence, one that surprises even him. Everyone else has fallen into silence; Steve can see them from the corner of his eye, observing as he tries to calm down the other man.

“Look at your abdomen.” He doesn’t. Steve huffs a frustrated breath. “If you look down you’ll see that they’ve been treating your injuries.” Some of those injuries are sluggishly bleeding down his skin and to the floor.

The Soldier takes a quick glance down to make sure Steve isn’t trying to trick him. Uncertainty flashes over his face and he shifts the grip around his weapon. Steve exploits this little doubt and gives a step closer—hands still raised—and crouches so they’re at eye level. The Soldier studies him with suspicious eyes and the sharp blade pointing at his heart.

“I know that you must be confused,” Steve keeps the low tone since it seems to have a positive effect on the other man’s mood, “but we’re not the enemy.”

_Not completely true._

The man returns a look that seems to be trying to express that’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard, as if he’s saying “everyone’s an enemy, you idiot”.

“Okay,” Steve says to himself. His eyes rake over the Soldier, trying to come up with a useful idea. “How about this: I’ll stay here while they treat you. You can keep the scalpel.”

“Rogers, I’m not sure…”

“Tony.” He turns so Stark can see the urgency painted all over his face. “Trust me on this one.”

Tony nods but takes a step forward, attentive and holding his muscles tense if anything happens and he has to spring into action. Steve is sure the Iron Man armor must be close.

Steve turns back to the Soldier and shuffles closer, slowly so not to startle him. The man looks groggy but the sedative must be wearing off. The man scrambles to get up using the wall behind his back as support. Now they’re standing facing one another with just two feet separating them. Steve’s arms are still held in the air.

“We won’t hurt you.” He tries to imbue as much earnestness into his words as possible. “I swear.”

Steve is sure the Solder doesn’t trust him (comprehensible); in spite of that, he ends laying on the operational table, Steve hovering over him with a scalpel dangerously close to his throat.

Steve blinks in pure bewilderment, unable to comprehend how he got to this point. Just hours ago he was pinning the same man to a wall, having to stop himself from punching the daylights out of him. And now…

Steve looks down and can see in the man’s eyes and body language that he’s aware of his precarious situation. He looks up at Steve and they lock eyes. His arm lowers an inch when a minute passes and Steve hasn’t taken advantage of the Soldier’s sorry state.

“I told you I wouldn’t hurt you,” Steve says so only the Soldier can make out the words.

“Okay, the show is over.” Tony claps his hands once and suddenly everyone spurs into action, tables being righted, utensils returned to their place, modesty blankets placed.

A nurse wheels a stool behind Steve so he can sit down. Steve thanks her with an awkward smile. The Soldier fulminates the woman with bloodshot eyes until she’s out of sight.

“You shouldn’t do that, she’s helping you,” Steve reproaches him. He slides on his ‘Captain America is disappointed in you’ look, as Natasha and Sam call it.

Steve feels the air being punched out of him, the thought of his hospitalized friend making him snap back. He hears something metallic clatter to the operational table and a hand is clutching at his forearm, fingers digging painfully into his muscles. Steve looks down at the panicked face. His need to pull away increases.

“You promised,” the Soldier reminds him, jaw clenched, voice cracked. Steve tries to free his arm but the man won’t let go, holding onto him like he’s a safety rope.

“Rogers, what the fuck are you doing?” Tony snaps. Everyone freezes and waits to see what will follow.

“Not my arm.” Steve stops struggling against the grip, paralyzed by the three words.

“What?” He blinks down at the ashen face.

The man looks more delirious now and Steve expects him to be sick any moment now. He’s profusely sweating and his body is shivering too much for the surgeons to do anything. The professionals share uncertain looks. “We have to sedate him,” one of them points out the obvious.

“No!” The Soldier loses the little calm he had regained. He kicks out causing the modesty blankets to fall to the floor once again and the team of professionals gives a step back. A woman takes off her surgical mask and storms out of the room; a man follows closely behind, hand covering his mouth.

“Rogers, do something, for fuck’s sake!” Stark shouts, visibly holding himself from trying to shut the Soldier up by his own means and inevitably getting himself killed.

Steve stands on his feet with his hands at either side of the Soldier’s head and tries to get his attention. “Hey, hey, hey! Calm down. You gotta calm down!”

The man seems unable to hear him. The Soldier’s respiration is raged and irregular and his hand is still anchored to Steve’s arm. Cold and clammy. Steve covers it with his own palm. He lowers his face closer to the Soldier’s, lips to his ear and shushes him. “You’re going to be okay.” He feels foolish and his face heats up at the hollow words and proximity. But the Soldier stops writhing after a few seconds, the operational room regaining some semblance of sanity.

He lifts his head and looks at everyone else at a loss. Tony makes a frantic gesture with his arm. _Keep going_, he mouths. Everyone waits with bated breath.

__

“You’re safe.” Steve feels filthy just by saying such a lie.

__

“I’m not leaving.” Steve feels filthy saying such a thing to someone who’s part of HYDRA. He didn’t get the chance to reassure Sam that everything would be okay when he was the one bleeding out.

__

A woman and a man start repositioning the paper blankets, hopefully for the last time. Steve grips the man’s arm and the Soldier zeroes in on the hand where it touches his clammy skin. Steve observes as the man’s jaw slackens; it’s like he’s seeing a miracle take place and Steve gets even more confused by the situation he’s been dragged into.

__

A woman approaches them on the right side, wheeling a table with everything needed to sedate the Soldier once again. She looks at Steve and then pointedly at the Soldier’s arm. Steve stretches it out, slowly so the Soldier won’t panic. “The nurse is going to sedate you.”

__

“No!” He was expecting that reaction.

__

“They need to in order to treat your injuries,” Steve explains patiently, voice strained but not raising.

__

“I don’t need it,” the Soldier punches the words out through gritted teeth, staring challengingly at the professional.

__

“Oh, I assure you, you do,” Tony butts in. “These people will have to cut off the unsalvageable tissue,” he explains. It’s enough for Steve’s stomach to turn.

__

“I.don’t.care.” The man blinks away the sweat that’s covering his face, sharp scalpel now pointing at the anaesthesiologist.

__

“Stark, I won’t be operating on someone without anesthesia!” the surgeon shouts, panicked at the mere idea. She takes a step closer to the operational table, arm pointing at the sprawled man. Steve fears the Soldier is about to start growling and biting. He slides one arm over the Soldier’s collarbone and the other presses lightly down on his right shoulder, making sure not to touch any injury.

__

“She’s not taking my arm,” the Soldier mumbles under his breath, words slurred. Steve looks around to make sure if someone else has heard but everyone is looking at the surgeon and Tony.

__

“He could die of circulatory shock, Tony.” Steve tunes into the conversation taking place. The woman is looking pleadingly at Tony, waiting for him to understand that she isn’t willing to risk one of her patient’s life, no matter who he is.

__

“I need my arm,” the Soldier is still mumbling. He sounds delirious and Steve believes it must be caused by the infected wounds. Steve ignores Tony and the surgeon and observes as the man’s head lolls to the left while he tries to keep his eyes open. He isn’t sure why but Steve is almost sure the Soldier is looking at his stump.

__

“You can’t take it,” he keeps slurring, chills shaking his body. “I need it.” He shifts his head and blinks up at Steve. His brows draw together.

__

“It’s useful for…” He looks unsure. “Missions. Y-you need it so I can…” His eyes flutter closed. The Soldier doesn’t reopen his eyes when he rasps out, raving on, “So I can complete m-missions. Staying… functional.”

__

Steve looks down at the uneasy features, sure of one single thing: the Soldier was addressing a different person while he grasped at straws and made his desperate argument against getting his remaining arm amputated.

__

Not shifting his arms from where they’re still holding down the Soldier, Steve raises his voice so everyone will hear. “He’s unconscious.”

__

Silence falls and everyone looks in their direction. The first in react is the anesthesiologist that was about to sedate the Soldier. Once the IV penetrates his vein, everything progresses swiftly.

__

Steve’s eyes don’t leave the pale face, not even for a second while his brain spirals into thoughts of serial numbers, prisoners of war, and things much, much more difficult to consider as the actual truth.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you consider I should add a tag or some warning for this chapter, tell me.


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me tell you how much I appreciate all your comments, guys

“James.”

He turns.

And there is nothing.

“Jamie.”

He turns.

And there is no one.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to jump into puddles?”

He spins.

Where is she?

“Jamie, go braid your sister’s hair, please.”

He runs.

His steps don’t echo.

“Oh, honey, don’t cry. We’ll clean it and then I’ll patch you up. You’ll be as good as new, baby.”

He screams her name.

It doesn’t reach her.

“I wish you didn’t have to go.”

There is nothing below him and he’s falling.

_Mama._

His body spasms and his eyes snap open. He feels uncomfortably warm and his heart is beating high in his throat.

_“Mom.”_ The word scratches up his throat.

_“Winnifred.”_ The name is punched out of his lungs.

He _remembers_ her. He had a mother. The Soldier looks for someone else in the room with whom he can share this information but he’s alone. The machines whirl and the room stays silent.

The pouring of memories is overwhelming and he hears his ragged breaths get faster. At the back of his mind, he can hear an increasing beeping sound. His hand grips the blanket and his eyes stay shut.

Her black hair and brown eyes hurt his brain; her warm hands and loving words puncture his chest. His hollowed-out brain fills up to the bream with memories of his mother, and the Soldier—_James, Jamie, honey, baby, son._ His mother’s kisses on the forehead dig an elbow into the ribs of his programming.

The man feels a sharp sting on one of his cheeks and his eyes finally open and try to focus, hearing coming back online. There is shouting and lights blind him. He wants someone to get his mom so she can place her palm over his forehead and tell him if he has a fever or not.

“I told you to get out!” James winces at the high volume. His brain feels like it has been liquefied and poured back into his skull. He tries to lift his hand and block out the light. He succeeds at the third try and his forearm falls heavily over his eyes, something tugging at the skin.

“I’m his nurse,” another voice answer, offended.

“I don’t fucking care, you just slapped a man that was waking up from an operation,” answers a man and the Soldier thinks it would be best for the second man to do what he’s been ordered.

“Look,” he sounds less convinced now but he perseveres, “Captain America, sir, with all due respect but that man is a—”

James peeks from under his arm just in time to see a bulky man push another man out of the room, this one dressed in scrubs. He reenters and slams the door closed, muttering something about “firing the sack of shit.” His step halters when he catches sight of James—the Soldier. James marvels at the notion of having a real name and this realization leaves him breathless.

“Hey, pal, you gotta breath,” the blonde man instructs and James finally remembers who he is. He inhales. “Just like that.” The Soldier—_James_ is undecided between sneering at the praise or preening; positive reinforcement isn’t something used on him.

With his arm flopping to his side, the man allows himself a minute to calm down. The Captain is looking at him with a slight frown and one of his hands hovers over the bed. James wants to snap at him but he knows better than to cross a person whose job description is something along the lines of “must be able to hurl a motorcycle over their head.” Also, he’s not stupid enough to provoke anyone while he doesn’t have the strength to lift his head off the pillow.

The Captain clears his throat. “The surgery went well.”

After some more blinking, the Soldier—

_James, James, James._

James looks at his left and sees his bandaged stump. His fingers rise on their own volition and hover over the white gauze. Holding his breath, he pokes at it. It hurts but when does it not? His arm flops over his chest, the movement too exhausting.

“It, um, it was infected. Pretty bad,” the Captain informs. His hands inside his pockets now, the man continues to hover awkwardly. James doesn’t really mind, not while he can bask in the warmth the man is radiating like a furnace. Maybe he should stall him. Unfortunately, the Soldier doesn’t have a skill for socializing; HYDRA never found it useful.

“But they patched you up really good,” the Captain continues, one of his hands leaving a pocket so he can use it to gesticulate.

James frowns; is this the same person that clearly couldn’t stand to be in James’ presence? He feels more disoriented than usual—is this a test? But what is he supposed to do to pass it? The Captain is undoubtedly trying to confuse him and the Soldier’s head hurts something awful when he tries to find a different explanation for the man’s change of behavior.

“I was there the whole time; had to get into scrubs and a surgical mask myself.” Awkward smile. James feels a band around his head, squeezing. “They didn’t touch your arm… but you probably don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t,” he croaks. His unexpected words make the Captain fall silent. James tries to read his face and it’s easier than he would have expected. HYDRA’s mind games were more difficult to spot since their people are better at hiding their intentions. Paradoxically so, the Captain’s open expression of surprise makes things more difficult for James; now he doesn’t know if he’s being manipulated or not.

James tries to clear his throat and that makes the Captain spring into motion. He picks a cup from a low table and hands it to James. When he realizes his mistake, he tilts the cup so James can take an ice chip. He tries but his hand won’t lift more than a palm from his abdomen where he’s accomplished to relocate it to.

“Erm.”

James stares him down, unwilling to put up with more of the man’s awkwardness, be it an act or not. James opens up his mouth, draws out his tongue, and waits for his ice chip.

“Oh, God.” His Adam’s apple bobs but the Captain complies, placing a chip on James’ tongue. James holds a sigh of relief when the cold liquid calms his parched throat.

(James knows it was a bold move but decides to ignore it.)

(He also ignores the rush caused by someone doing something for him.)

The Captain takes a chair and places it near the head of the bed. James doesn’t find it unusual, he was expecting it. What _is_ unexpected now that he’s more lucid, is the fact that he’s not strapped down to the bed. Actually, they haven’t even handcuffed him to the rail, and apart from the Captain there isn’t any other guard in the room. Granted, right at the moment the Soldier wouldn’t be able to overpower the other man, especially with the IV drip hooked to him that’s probably not there only for a hydrating and nutritional purpose.

Or maybe the Avenger’s Captain is stupid like that and lacks basic self-preservation instincts.

“The doctor told us you were suffering dehydration and malnourishment,” the Captain informs when he catches James looking up at the IV bag. “She said it was bordering on starvation. I thought she was going to bite Tony’s head off for not informing her about something like that.”

James stares down at the IV in his vain.

“They got rid of your trackers, too,” he adds after a silence.

The Soldier—

He’s too tired to reprimand himself for mixing it up again. Having a name doesn’t really matter, not when no one knows it, remembers it or even cares about its existence.

The Soldier drags his eyes to the Captain… Steve Rogers. Perhaps no one uses his name, either, or cares that he has one. The Soldier knows him as the Captain, the world as Captain America, HYDRA as one of their main enemies.

Steve Rogers is looking at him and studying his face closely, the Soldier realizes when his brain finally tunes in. It’s like he’s expecting the Soldier to have some kind of reaction. It’s unfortunate because he’s already forgotten what Steve Rogers just said. He blinks slowly at him. Did he ask a question? His mind is drifting.

“What’s your name?” He blinks again, not sure he’s heard right. The Soldier makes a confused noise. “Look, I’m not sure anymore what the fuck is going on,” Steve Rogers confides but it does nothing to further the Soldier’s understanding.

Steve Rogers gets up from the chair, metal legs scraping against the floor, and the Soldier feels himself flinch back. His expression morphs immediately into something inscrutable but it’s too late to pretend. Steve Rogers falters at first but continues after a moment. “I need you to clear out some things for me because I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

The Soldier nods his understanding—or at least he acts like he understands what is going on around him.

“Okay,” Steve Rogers says, more for his sake than the Soldier’s.

He sits back down on the chair, elbows propped on his knees. He rubs his face and takes a moment to think over whatever it is he needs the Soldier to answer. The Soldier isn’t sure he will be able to give an answer, though; there isn’t a lot he knows apart from handling weapons, HYDRA protocols, or the taste of his mom’s food. The latter is part of his earlier unlocked memories but he doesn’t know when they were created nor when they were blocked.

The Soldier has to force his focus on the man before him. “Is your code name the Winter Soldier?”

Oh, this one is easy. “Yes.” His throat still burns but the Soldier doesn’t ask for another ice chip.

According to Steve Rogers’ expression, that wasn’t the answer he wanted. The Soldier feels apprehension and his body tenses up. It’s unnecessary because Steve Rogers passes to his next question. “Do you work with HYDRA?”

“Yes,” he croaks again.

These questions are really easy but the Soldier can’t feel pleased for getting all of them right because the answers seem to be bothering Steve Rogers even further. His face looks the same way the Soldier feels when he wakes up after a thawing.

“Did you kill Maggie Clarke in an Indiana forest about four days ago?” Steve Rogers does not look like a man that wants to get an affirmative answer.

The Soldier only nods this time, stomach roiling.

“Did you kill Nicholas Fury?” Steve Rogers’ hands ball into fists when he says this.

The Soldier swallows with effort before nodding his affirmation. Steve Rogers inhales deeply before his next question. The Soldier wishes he didn’t know the answer.

“Were you the man who fought Samuel Wilson three weeks ago?”

The Soldier remembers what happened three weeks ago which he’s sure it’s a new personal record for his memory. So, yes, he remembers Sam Wilson as well as Natasha Romanov and Steve Rogers. He remembers shooting her in the shoulder (Steve Rogers is probably going to ask him about that one, too) the same way he remembers Sam Wilson whizzing for breath under him, hand held up and eyes swollen, almost shut close. He had looked at the Soldier and… said… something… The Soldier finds it difficult to remember at the moment but he knows he hadn’t begged for mercy. Remembering his fist faltering when about to land the definitive blow won’t change his answer, though.

“Yes.”

Body ready this time, the Soldier doesn’t show weakness when Steve Rogers springs from the chair. He takes a deep breath, hands covering his face, and steps away from the bed. When he turns to face the Soldier again, Steve Rogers hasn’t taken ahold of himself yet and it shows in his trembling hands. He’s probably holding back a punch, the Soldier thinks—being so transparent isn’t a good quality in his field of work.

“Did you want to do it?”

Blink blink blink.

“Did you, huh?” he repeats with more force, body moving forward with the push of the words.

“I… I had to.”

His head hurts and just now that the throbbing is increasing does he register it as pain and not just pressure.

“That’s not what I asked you,” Steve Rogers grits. “Did you take pleasure when you put my friend into a coma? That’s the fucking question!”

“I…”

Speaking requires oxygen and there doesn’t seem to be enough of it in the room. The Captain is now looming over him and the borders of his vision are darkening. Someone better get his ma because she always knows what to do.

“You did, didn’t you? Is that why you work with HYDRA, because it’s the best place for a man like you? Just mission after mission of getting your rocks off on beating the shit out of innocent people!”

“No,” he hears himself rasp out.

“Can’t you say anything else?” the Captain demands. He takes a step back and the Soldier’s hand loses its tight grip on the blanket, fingers already stiff.

“Goddamnit.” The Captain runs his hands over his hair while he circles the reduced space of the room. He looks at the Soldier and it’s like he suddenly deflates, anger evaporating. “I need to understand what the hell is going on because you’re not making any sense.”

The Soldier scowls at that statement. He observes Steve Rogers sit once again on the chair. Someone is not making sense all right but it definitely isn’t only James.

“Let’s-let’s start again.” He watches Steve Rogers wriggle his hands. “What is your name?” He stares at the Soldier with hopeful eyes and the Soldier feels even more relieved that he has an answer.

“James.” It’s the first time he’s saying it out loud and it doesn’t feel completely right rolling off his tongue.

“Good. Your second name?”

Silence. Steve Rogers’ face falls. “You won’t tell me?”

“I… don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” Steve Rogers’ expression fluctuates between annoyance and puzzlement.

“My second name.” His voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard.

He can feel his heart beating against his chest, speed increasing like something crucial is about to take place but James cannot know what.

Steve Rogers’ frown deepens and his lips turn into a thin white line. “How is that possible?”

The Soldier shrugs, not only because he’s forbidden from divulging HYDRA procedures but because he doesn’t really know how whatever they do to his brain works. He only remembers the excruciating pain the Chair causes but not always how that pain is inflicted on his nervous system.

Steve Rogers exhales a desperate breath through his nose. “Then at least can you explain why we found you beaten up in a HYDRA cell, starved and dehydrated? You work with them.”

Back to the easy questions, what a relief. “Didn’t finish my mission.”

Steve Rogers opens his mouth but quickly thinks better and snaps it shut. He stares at his shoes in concentration. “And they punished you?”

“Yes.” The Soldier frowns at the stupid question. What were they supposed to do, pat him on the back? Throw him a party?

“I don’t understand. Why would you work for someone who will beat you half to death?”

The Soldier’s head is pulsing and he only wants to close his eyes for a second. His stump is burning and he can feel it even through the painkillers.

“I’m.” He forgets what he’s about to say but it comes back to him after three pulses of his temples. “I’m HYDRA’s Asset.”

Steve Rogers’ features shift from frustrated to revolted. “_Jesus Christ_, how much are they paying you?”

“Paying?”

Steve Rogers’ face is a shade away from turning purple. The Soldier fears his head is about to explode, too.

“Let me get this straight.” Steve Rogers leans forward. “You work for HYDRA even though they will hurt you if you don’t complete a mission _and_ they don’t pay you for your… job?”

The Soldier is starting to get frustrated. His body is one big bruise that aches and his brain is trying to exit his skull through his eye sockets, and here he is answering questions so this man can _understand_. Tough luck; James hasn’t understood a thing for the last month and he hasn’t made anyone else’s life more difficult because of it. His confusion got him as far as not eliminating a mark a few days ago.

“They own me,” he spits out, begging for this to be the end of it, for the man to understand whatever he needs to make sense out of.

The Soldier feels like crying when Steve Rogers’ face turns into a mix of surprise and disconcertment. There won’t be tranquility for him anytime soon, he realizes. “They wake me up, tell me what to do and I d-do it. If it’s a successful mission I’ll go back under and i-if it isn’t there will be punishment.”

He needs a moment to recover his breath after finishing. His throat feels raw. The blonde man stares at him, frozen in place. The Soldier wants to beg Steve Rogers to let him close his eyes and stay in silence for five minutes, only five.

“What do you mean by ‘wake you up’?”

The Soldier is close to weeping but instead shuts tightly his eyes, lights becoming too bright.

“Cryosleep.”

He hears a sharp intake of air. He’s starting to miss his cryo-chamber.

“James.” Steve Rogers’ voice saying his name isn’t sharp like the piercing light or his healing wounds. It’s the first time the Soldier has heard anyone say his name out loud apart from his mom inside his head. He opens his eyes: Steve Rogers is standing by his right side, close enough for the Soldier to feel his warmth once again.

“James,” he repeats, alarm and bewilderment both in his voice. His eyes are bright and the blue of them stands out on his suddenly ashen face. “James, why didn’t you tell us you’re a prisoner?”

He blinks, mind turning blank. It feels like someone’s digging into his brain. The statement makes zero sense to him but at the same time it’s like looking at an abstract picture and feeling like the answer to what it represents is on the tip of his tongue.

Steve Rogers’ complexion has turned green and the Soldier fears he’s going to be sick all over his blanket.

“How long have they kept you prisoner?” the man says in one breath and now the Soldier fears the Captain is going to choke on his words.

“No,” the Soldier grunts. His head is going to explode, this time for real. “I don’t know. _Shut up._”

“Months?” Steve Rogers prods. “Years? Is there anyone looking for you, someone we should call?”

_“I don’t know!”_ he finally snaps.

Both fall into silence and the Soldier doesn’t need more than a second to realize what he just did. He hunches his shoulders and lowers his head, sinking into the mattress.

“James.” He doesn’t turn.

“James.” The man sounds imploring this time and when the Soldier glances up he looks it too. He’s holding the cup with ice chips and offers a forced half-smile, what for the Soldier can’t tell. He opens his mouth, sure that it’s what’s expected of him, and Steve Rogers places a piece of ice on his tongue—the Soldier catches his fingers trembling.

“I’ll help you,” he says while the Soldier slithers his arm under the thin blanket; his body isn’t producing much heat so it’s not that much warmer under there. “You’re safe now.”

Wouldn’t it be nice if those words had some meaning?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and subscribing! I’ll be here, waiting for your opinion on this chapter.  
Hope you’re having a good week or at least a bearable one :)


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya guys!
> 
> SORRY FOR THIS RANT BUT I NEED TO SAY THIS
> 
> I know you probably won’t care but my favorite band, the one I have tattooed on my wrist (1st tat I got when I was 14) is *supposedly* (I won’t believe it until there’s an official video or something) are parting ways with their guitarist from the last 10 years and *SUPPOSEDLY* their former guitarist (I got his surname tattooed when I was 15, my 2nd tat) is coming back to the band?!!??!
> 
> If you didn’t guess it yet I’m talking about the Red Hot Chili Peppers and John Frusciante
> 
> I’ve spent 8 years repeating to myself “I’ll never see John on a concert or cross paths with him but that’s okaaaay, I only want him to be happy and make his weird ass solo music.” And now you’re telling me I may see him LIVE?!!? For me this guy is like a mythical creature and seeing him in person will break my brain
> 
> Phew ok got that off my chest. Sorry guys I just really really love this man and I rarely say that about ppl I don’t know

“No morning run today?”

Steve jumps on his stool, head snapping up from his coffee cup.

“Oh, hey, Tony.” Steve takes a second to notice the sunlight streaming through the windows. “Not in the mood.”

Going for a run is for when Sam is with him—it wouldn’t feel the same now. He looks back down at his dark coffee, feeling even worse than a second ago.

He doesn’t usually have breakfast in the communal kitchen (he isn’t usually staying at the Tower) but today he didn’t want to be alone in his bare and luxurious kitchen—even his breath has an echo there. He wasn’t really sure if anyone else was going to be here, though, and now that someone has showed he’s not sure anymore if he wants any company.

Steve listens to Tony putter in the cupboards and then he’s sitting in front of Steve on the table. “I bet my Tower I know what you’re thinking about.”

Steve snorts humorlessly but gestures with a hand for Tony to go on. “Maybe we didn’t get off to a good start when we met and we don’t always see eye to eye…” Steve really hopes there’s more to the statement. “But I know you better than you think.”

Steve looks at him with skepticism. Tony barks a laugh at his furrowed face. “Look, Rogers, there was no way we could have known the _Winter fucking Soldier_ was actually one of HYDRA’S many victims.”

Steve keeps his frown in place.

“Come on! How were we going to draw that conclusion? That a guy who’s killed tons of people, who you’ve even personally fought against and has gravely injured your friends, was actually doing it out of fear and conditioning.

“We never thought of the possibility that the Winter Soldier had zero agency,” Tony points out, more somber than Steve has ever heard him be. “All our speculations came from judging the Winter Soldier as a person with his own will.”

Steve decides to go back to staring gloomily at his coffee; at least it doesn’t try to reason with him.

“There’s nothing we can do now, Steve,” Tony continues, his tone tilting from somber to slightly vexed.

“I spent days imagining his death,” Steve confesses, unable to look Tony in the eye. He feels his face heat up with shame. “I imagined killing him with my own hands over and over.” He snaps his mouth shut, afraid he’s going to be sick.

“I’m sure you’re not the only one.” Steve looks up at that. “Nat’s spent a lot of time in Wilson’s room, looking murderous most of the time.”

Steve lowers his head again. “What happened to Wilson wasn’t your fault, either.” Steve scowls at him and then down at his coffee, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I know that’s why you aren’t visiting him as often.” Tony has a triumphant smirk because he knows he hit the nail on the head. Steve grumbles under his breath.

“His mother had to go back home.” Tony continues ignoring Steve’s expression. “Really nice woman, by the way, you would like her.”

So Tony Stark himself has already met Darlene Wilson. Sam had talked a lot about his family and Steve had always felt a special interest in his mother; Darlene had reminded him a lot of his own mom from what he’d recollected from his conversations with Sam. From the first time he had realized this, Steve has feared—deep down—the day he would meet the woman, unsure of how he’ll act. He doesn’t want to see Sarah Rogers in a woman who is her own person.

Now that Sam is in a hospital bed, that fear seems childish and idiotic.

“I assume you already know of every one of Wilson’s changes, but the doctors say he’s getting better.”

Steve nods, still staring into his cold coffee. His heart jackhammers into his chest, the same as every time someone mentions Sam and his medical condition. He just waits for Tony to finish with that specific line of dialogue. Tony gives a final sigh and digs into his breakfast.

They don’t talk while Tony eats and Steve feels a knot in his stomach. He wants to discuss what happened with the Soldier—with _James_. He wants to talk about it and wants someone to point out that it’s his fault, that as the captain he should have seen that something was wrong. He did, that’s true, but he kept behaving like a _bully_. You hurt my friends so I have the right to terrorize you, that was his mind’s reasoning.

“Don’t forget our Avengers meeting,” Tony reminds him when he’s placing his plate into the dishwasher.

“I won’t,” he grumbles.

He feels morose and it’s annoying even him. This morning he didn’t want to get out of bed and that’s why he made himself wake up at five past thirty in the morning. Still, he did the same thing as if he’d stayed under his warm blankets: sulk. Grudgingly, Steve empties his cup of coffee in one go and places it into the dishwasher. He can’t—he shouldn’t continue with this attitude or things will get ugly for him.

With this thought in mind, Steve takes the elevator straight to the gym and vows to train until it comes time to go to the Avengers meeting. It works for a couple of hours but then comes a moment when he can’t ignore anymore the itch under his skin. There’s something Steve has to do and he can’t keep postponing it or he swears he will lose his mind.

He takes a long, cold shower before visiting Sam.

Steve’s hand trembles around the door handle and he curses his weakness. His grip tightens and he pushes the door open. The room looks exactly the same as the first and last time he visited. Except… Except Sam’s respiration isn’t being assisted by a machine and he’s also now progressed to parenteral feeding.

Steve’s feet carry him to Sam and he notices that his face looks less swollen, too. It does nothing for his rising nausea. His heart is hammering, his palms sweating, his throat closes up, and his stomach churns… He feels like a criminal returning to the crime scene.

Steve sits by the bed and lets silence envelop him. It does nothing for his thoughts and Steve finds himself taking Sam’s right hand into his own palms and rests his forehead against it. He tries to hold back a whimper but a second later he’s crying through gritted teeth.

“So…” Natasha is the first one to say a word after they have each taken a seat around the conference room table.

“Let’s address the elephant in the room,” Barton follows. He’s sitting sideways on his chair and Steve wonders how that can be comfortable with the armrest digging into the man’s back. Natasha is sitting on his left and nods her agreement.

“Yeah, the guy we have in my hospital wing right now who, _wow_, seems is not a cold-blooded killer but another person HYDRA fucked over.”

“They’ve outdone themselves,” Steve comments, head lowered.

“Maybe not a cold-blooded killer,” Barton says, “but he _is_ cold-blooded. Right?” He looks at Tony and then turns so he can look at Natasha since he’s with his back to her, legs dangling from the opposite armrest.

“Yeah, he is,” Tony confirms, his head nodding along. “His body has a really low temperature; any normal person and they would have already died of hypothermia. There can be many different reasons causing it but the most probable is HYDRA’s knock-off serum.”

“Steve.” He looks at Tony at the head of the table when he’s addressed. “Your body runs hotter since you got your own serum, right?”

Steve doesn’t know where Tony got this piece of information—he’s probably been searching into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s archive again—but either way, he nods a confirmation.

“Well.” Tony lifts his hands palm-up as if everything is clarified. “I wouldn’t be surprised if HYDRA’s shitty magic potion has side effects like… I don’t know, needing to sleep upside down.”

Tony scowls as Natasha rolls her eyes at his crack.

“Either way,” the scientist adds, “I wouldn’t lose much sleep over it; he’s not going to die.”

“It can’t be pleasant,” Steve has to point out. He can’t prevent but direct a glare in Tony’s direction, hackles rising just watching the man’s unconcerned posture. Steve is already familiarized with the engineer’s happy-go-lucky façade but the knowledge does nothing to mitigate the jarring feeling of hearing him talk like that about the Soldier.

_James. His name is James._

Steve hasn’t had a lot of opportunities to use the name so he believes it will take him a bit of time to get used to it.

Tony is looking at him now. He’s not trying to provoke Steve but just waits for him to continue. Steve lets out a deep sigh and reminds himself that this is a serious matter and he can’t let his own feelings—be it his guilt over Sam’s state or _James’_—fog his mind.

“So the W—” Steve huffs an irritated breath. “James’ body can’t regulate its temperature,” he states out loud. He nods at his own words, absorbing the bizarre information. “Is there something we can do?”

“I told you,” Tony says, trying to mask his annoyance. “There’s little one can do against the supersoldier serum, even if it’s a Target edition. I’ve already sent samples—”

“Tony,” Natasha has to stop him before he gets too carried away.

“What?”

Natasha points at Steve with a hand.

“I meant what can we do so he will feel more comfortable,” Steve elaborates.

“Oh.” He taps a finger against his chin. “I already increased the temperature in his hospital room.” Steve is glad to hear that Tony hasn’t actually ignored James’ odd condition. “I don’t know how much it’s helping him, though; we‘ll have to ask him what will make him feel better.”

Steve is nodding his agreement when Natasha speaks up. “I’m not sure we will get much of an answer.” She lets a second pass as all eyes turn to her. “If he really is a HYDRA prisoner and he’s been one for a long time, how many times do you think someone has asked him about his well-being?”

Natasha lets that sink in. “His notion of how things work may be a bit askew by now.”

“What do you think will happen if we ask him ‘hey, man, what can we do so you’re not cold all the time?’” Barton questions before Steve can. He turns in his seat and lets his feet hit the floor. He looks just as curious as the other two men.

Natasha gives a slight shrug with a shoulder. “I cannot know.” The three men deflate. “Maybe he’ll be confused, maybe he’ll think we’re trying to trick him.”

She leaves it at that but Steve feels discomfit now. He goes back to his last few interactions with James and tries to find something he’s said that could have confused the Soldier—James. There are a lot of factors to take into account and most of them Steve doesn’t know since he doesn’t know what has been James’ reality with HYDRA. Either way, Steve is convinced he’s fucked up a few times when speaking with James.

“Steve.” His head snaps up when he hears Natasha’s accusatory tone.

“What?” His face heats up. He feels like everyone can see displayed over his head all the unforgiving things he’s done to James since the moment he set foot into his _prison cell._

“Stop thinking,” Natasha instructs and Steve is sure she already knows what’s been roaming his mind. He tries not to feel like a little kid who got scolded for not paying attention in class.

“By the way,” Barton says lifting a hand in the air to get everyone’s attention. “Do we already know who he is? James _who?_”

“We don’t, no,” Tony admits.

“I actually have an idea of how we could find out,” Steve offers. Tony raises an impressed brow and Steve doesn’t know if he should be offended. “Before his operation,”— _Before I sedated him without his consent and let him smash against a wall_, part of him wants to add—“we heard him saying something.”

“Oh, right,” Tony says as if he’d already forgotten.

“I’m pretty sure it was his serial number,” Steve clarifies.

“He’s a fucking P.O.W.,” Barton breathes out when the words register. Steve nods.

“You remember the numbers?” Tony asks him, phone already in hand.

“I do.” He recites them: 32557038. They’ve been wandering his mind since he heard them, and even if his memory weren’t enhanced he knows he would still remember them.

“I’ll look into it. J, make a note.”

“Done, Sir.”

Steve lets them drift into silence before he starts with another item of interest.

“I consider it better if we don’t tell anything to S.H.I.E.L.D. for the moment.” Steve studies their expressions, looking for a reaction. He has the vivid memory of trying the same thing the first time he asked them for help with the Winter Soldier. The same way as that day, Barton is the only one not trying to mask his confusion.

“Cap, we work for S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Barton states as if he’s forgotten.

“I know, and I know I’m asking a lot but S.H.I.E.L.D. has been as set on capturing the _Winter Soldier_ as we’ve been these past weeks.” Steve makes an emphasis on James’ code name, hoping they’ll understand what he means: no one else knows of the existence of a real person under the Winter Soldier’s mask.

Steve is assaulted by an unpleasant thought: James was probably forced into the dark mask and goggles.

“Not really if we were the firsts to find him,” Tony comments off-handedly and Steve doesn’t know if there’s a different message encoded in the words. He decides to ignore it.

“Look,” Steve is intent on getting the message across, “S.H.I.E.L.D. will need proof that James hasn’t been killing people of his own volition but that HYDRA has been using persuasion so he would do their dirty work.”

“We will need HYDRA documents to prove that,” Natasha contributes. “HYDRA likes to keep a record of their procedures, be it how they build their weapons or how they torture their traitors.”

“I have taken a look at the pen drive,” Tony voices, looking at something in his phone. “Haven’t had a moment to take a proper one but it seems to have information about how to take proper care of a weapon. How to clean the asset, how to calibrate the asset…”

“The asset?” Steve feels his blood turn to ice.

“That’s what I said. What is it? Why do you look like you just saw my grandfather naked, Cap?” Tony takes a look at himself as if he has to make sure he’s not the one undressed.

“What did it say?” Steve questions, urgency coloring his tone. He forces himself to stay in the chair and not jump to his feet, energy pulsing through him.

“I kinda just read the index. Why? You look like you have an idea of what the asset is.”

“Is it that dangerous?” Barton asks with worry.

“Is it a nuclear weapon?” Natasha fires next, a note of unease in her tone, too.

Steve manages to shake his head. He opens his mouth and tries to speak but his voice falters. He clears his throat and tries to chase away the images that try to form into his head. “James called himself HYDRA’s asset.”

His words plunge the conference room into a charged silence. Natasha leans back in her seat but Steve has the feeling that the news hasn’t taken her by surprise as much as her teammates.

“Tony, could you bring up the pen drive’s content?” Steve requests, voice and expression controlled now, so much that he feels like the skin of his face will crack any second.

Tony nods wordlessly and asks J.A.R.V.I.S. to show the documents on a hologram. He selects a folder that opens up to show numerous documents and recordings with different titles. Steve selects the first document and skims it.

_The Asset must not be left alone at any moment while thawed…_

_The Asset acts unpredictably when thawed…_

_The Asset possesses high pain tolerance but must be tested every few months…_

_The Asset must be punished when…_

_“Shit,”_ Barton hisses. The man gets to his feet, hands running through his hair as he starts walking the length of the room.

“Shit indeed,” Tony concurs as he closes the document and makes to select one of the videos. Steve feels his muscles spasm with the instinct to stop him but knows they have to make sure this is what they’re looking for. They need all the evidence they can find that shows James has been forced into killing for HYDRA.

The video starts into a room poorly illuminated and empty. Steve needs only a few seconds to recognize the setting and his stomach twists painfully.

_“Shit,”_ he hears himself say. His face has probably turned green but he can’t look away.

Everyone recognizes the Winter Soldier when he enters the room. His metal arm is already missing

(“They even took the shoulder port,” Tony comments with a mix of stupefaction and horror. “I-it’s were they would have attached the bionic arm,” he explains when everyone turns to stare at him. “There was no need for them to take it off.”)

and he’s only in a pair of boxers. Even when they all know how cold it must be there, he isn’t shivering; Steve believes it’s a consequence of his rigid posture. He remembers then the moment James’ body had started shaking uncontrollably in the medical bay and how it had suddenly ceased when James had woken up. He must be consciously controlling the spasms. _Constantly._

_“Turn to the wall,”_ orders a female voice but no one else enters the frame.

The four Avengers observe as the Soldier doesn’t do as said and instead blinks and turns his neck so he can inspect the room. _“Why?”_ the man asks after a while, face scrunched in concentration. A shudder runs over Steve’s body at the broken yet soft voice and he watches enthralled as the man blinks repeatedly, like someone just waking up.

Everyone watching the recording can tell that the silence is caused by astonishment at the man asking a question. It must not be a usual occurrence.

_“Have you ever heard him say anything?”_ whispers a male voice off camera. Steve doesn’t hear any answer so it must have been given with a gesture.

_“Turn,”_ the female voice repeats the order with more authority in her tone.

James blinks and stays still. Steve can almost see the woman’s gears turn when she has to make a decision. She finally comes into view. They can see James’ eyes travel to her truncheon but he doesn’t move away when she steps into his space.

_“Turn to the wall. NOW!”_

Even confused, James starts turning. The woman lifts her truncheon and places it to James’ lower back. Steve feels a hand reach inside his chest when he realizes it’s not a truncheon but a stun gun. James shouts in pain but stays on his feet. His arm trembles slightly when he places it on the wall at head level. The woman takes a shackle from his right and uses it on the man’s wrist which she positions behind his back, whereas the other shackle is fastened around his neck—if he tries to move his arm he will choke himself. Steve notices James’ bleeding stump.

“Maybe you should fast forward it,” Steve says when the chain that secures James’ arm is secured to another chain that hangs from the ceiling.

Tony does just that and they all can see three people in the room. Two are the HYDRA technicians they have in custody while the other one is wearing a mask. Tony stops the recording a few times but it doesn’t seem like he talks at all. On the other hand, the two technicians explain throughout the video everything they’re doing to “the Asset.”

“I think it’s enough,” Steve croaks. He clears his throat and gets to his feet.

“I think we have enough just with this,” Tony points out, voice devoid of its usual energy.

The tension is obvious in the room and Steve believes he’s not the only one that feels like shit for spending weeks trying to catch the Winter Soldier. There was indeed no way for them to know this but Steve knows there is nothing that will make him forget the violent images his brain had concocted.

Everyone else seems to agree with Tony but Steve has to interject. “I don’t think it will be beneficial for James if we just... entrust him to S.H.I.E.L.D.” When no one contradicts him, he continues. “He doesn’t talk, for starters, but most importantly he doesn’t trust us.”

Steve runs a hand down his face and paces the room. “He didn’t even tell us he’s a prisoner.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know he’s one,” Natasha pipes in.

Steve along his other two teammates regards Natasha with intrigued eyes.

“HYDRA is very good at brainwashing,” is her only explanation.

_Shit_, Steve thinks to his insides. This is getting worse with every passing hour.

“More reason not to hand him over to S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Steve insists.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. has really good therapists, Cap,” Barton adds his two cents but doesn’t sound like he will defend a posture pro S.H.I.E.L.D.

“He needs some time.”

He feels desperate to make them understand. When he woke up from the ice, being surrounded by dozens of specialists studying him wasn’t what he needed to find his footing in the future. He hasn’t spent enough time with James, especially since he found out the truth about him and HYDRA, but Steve believes he could help him… if James were to accept his help.

“All right,” Natasha agrees and after her follows Barton’s own agreement. Tony nods when they lock eyes.

After that follows Natasha and Barton’s report on the two HYDRA agents, Vivian and Xin. As already stated the day before, they aren’t important pieces of the organization. They had said it had been the first and only time they’d worked with the Winter Soldier. They didn’t know why Maggie Clarke had been wanted dead by the organization.

As a final point of discussion, Steve asks Tony if he got rid of James’ nurse. He leans back against his chair when he gets an affirmative answer.

Once the debriefing has ended, it’s already six in the evening and the four head to the communal kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll post one more chapter this week bc I’ll spend the holidays away from my computer


	10. Chapter 9

The erratic thoughts have been increasing and getting more troubling. James knows the reason is that he hasn’t been wiped and placed into his cryo-chamber but the Avengers don’t need to know about all this. _You just have to wait for HYDRA to retrieve you_, he’s been repeating to himself for hours but the thing is… that’s exactly what’s kept him vigil throughout the night. And there is where the most worrying thought had begun and he hadn’t found a way to stop the ideas that had followed it.

_What if HYDRA doesn’t come?_

All had started from there. What if they can’t find him now that he doesn’t have the tracking chips? What if they aren’t _interested_ in finding him? After all, he’s been failing to carry out his mission with the quality HYDRA requires from their best weapon. The thought is terrifying at first, imagining a world where he doesn’t know what to do, where to go. He stares intently at the white ceiling, trying to imagine a future like that and his brain comes blank.

After a few hours, a different thought had started forming, timidly at first and then eclipsing everything else.

_What if HYDRA left me here?_

It didn’t have to be with the Avengers since James didn’t feel more welcomed with them than with HYDRA—

His brain had come to a halt at that moment because… he had received medical treatment and been operated on without even asking for it. His wounds are healing since the chemicals from whatever they inject him with before taking disciplinary actions are wearing off. He feels like the room is warmer—not enough for his limbs to stop shivering but it’s better. It’s not the first time he’s been captured and that’s how he knows this treatment he’s receiving is odd.

_So… what if HYDRA doesn’t come for me?_

His head hurts just from thinking about all the things he could do or learn to do. It scares him and there is a part of him—one pretty big—that prefers what he already knows instead of venturing into the unknown. Perhaps he’s not made for the outside, for living without a handler, a mission, a chair that makes him forget and forces him to start over with only HYDRA protocols and the necessary skills to complete a mission stored inside his brain.

The Soldier forces himself to imagine a scenario where he tries to kill Steve Rogers or the daughter of his last mission. His brain sends an electrical message to his stomach and James fights off the bile that rises up his esophagus.

Once again, his dilemma is settled by the fact that what his sudden desires are doesn’t matter; HYDRA will come for him and they will take the disciplinary actions they see fit.

There’s a knock on the door and James shifts his eyes away from the ceiling. His lids feel heavy due to lack of sleep and pain killers still being pumped into his system. He would want to ask someone to get him off the sedatives too but he knows they’re doing it for safety. The Soldier—James doesn’t want to fight anyone but he understands their reservations.

Steve Rogers opens the door and asks if he can come in. James wonders if it’s one of those jokes he doesn’t get. He shrugs a shoulder and tries not to nod off.

“Hey,” Steve Rogers greets with a wave of his hand.

James would like to ask him what questions he wants him to answer today but he feels drained. He tries to appear less weak but he doesn’t really remember how to do that. He thinks it may be because of being in such a different place and needing longer to read its people. He gets his hand from under the blanket and balls it into a fist as subtly as possible, feeling the IV shift into his skin. His head feels full of air.

Steve Rogers drags a chair near the bed and the noise is like claws scratching at his brain. James notices then that the other man is carrying something in his hands. His sight is blurry and he makes an inquiring noise at the back of his throat.

“Oh, this.” Steve Rogers lifts it and then unfolds it and James can see it’s a grey sweatshirt. James nods his head and feels better now that he knows what it is.

“It’s for you,” Steve Rogers adds and James feels his body freeze with equal parts surprise and confusion. Steve Rogers must sense it because he half-smiles and says, “I know that you have trouble regulating your temperature.”

_That’s one way to say it._

James looks down at the sweatshirt on Steve Rogers’ lap and then at himself. He has the hunch it won’t work if he tries to put it on by himself. He lifts his hand from the bed—it too feels like steel—palm-up and waits for the blonde man to hand him the garment over.

“Thanks,” the word scratches his throat. He hasn’t used it in a long time—hasn’t had the occasion—but something tells him his mother—wherever she is—will be disappointed if he doesn’t show some manners.

He holds the item in the air for a second and then lays it over his chest. He looks at Steve Rogers with half-closed eyes, expectant.

“You’re not going to put it on?”

“I can’t.” That right there is a sentence the Soldier cannot utter under any circumstances—at least when he’s with HYDRA. His muscles unclench when nothing happens after the two words leave his lips.

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

Steve Rogers takes away the sweatshirt and James feels a pang of disillusion. He shouldn’t have because Steve Rogers holds it in front of him. “I’ll help you,” he says. As if it’s that simple.

When he doesn’t make an attempt to pull the hoody away, James gathers strength to sit up propped by the pillows. Steve Rogers, as already stated, helps him with his IV and one arm situation so he can get into the hoody. Once dressed into it, James leans back and his hand moves directly into the front pocket. It’s a little too big on him—the Soldier knows he has lost some pounds in the last days—but it makes it all that more comfortable. The fabric feels radically different from the one of his uniform which always feels rough against his skin. He looks down at it and rubs it between his fingers.

“Soft,” the word escapes from his mouth. When James looks up at the blonde, he’s relieved to see Steve Rogers isn’t staring at him with that look every HYDRA operative has when around him. He wouldn’t be able to give an accurate description of it but he’s always felt like an exotic animal being studied.

“Um.” The blonde rubs the back of his neck and looks away from James, then back at him. “Do you feel better?”

James frowns.

“Do you feel less… cold?” he clarifies. James starts to shrug but stops himself and then nods his head. He burrows farther into the sweatshirt, dragging the blanket to his chest.

“It’s for you,” Steve Rogers says. “If it wasn’t obvious.”

James feels his forehead crease when his frown deepens. This doesn’t look like a uniform, at least not one appropriate for missions. The Avengers using him for their own operations is an idea that’s already crossed his mind, that’s why it doesn’t surprise him that much that this could be the Captain’s reason to visit today.

“Why?” James questions, directing a wary glare at the Captain. He needs to know. _Understand._

“Because you’re cold,” he simply answers.

It’s hard for him to believe that’s truly it but he knows it’s better not to piss off anyone while captive. He needs less effort here that with HYDRA.

_(what if HYDRA doesn’t find me?)_

“We got more clothes for you but they’re in your room.” James’ eyes snap up from where he had been inspecting the soft material of the sweatshirt.

“What?”

“James,” (It’s jarring to hear someone use his name and it still feels a bit wrong) “we’re here to help you. HYDRA won’t find you and if they do we won’t let them take you.”

A silence follows the words and it seems like Steve Rogers is waiting for something, maybe a reaction (he tends to do that, James has notices.) James has only one question but he doesn’t want to be repetitive.

He has the feeling that he’s missing a piece of the puzzle—Steve Rogers’ words didn’t sound like a threat but their content should have turned it into one.

“I’m HYDRA’s,” are the words that leave his mouth, learned by rote. Steve Rogers’ face does something weird that the Soldier can’t follow—he catches shock, dejection… and then he gets lost.

“James, you’re a person, you can’t be owned,” Steve Rogers states. It’s good to know but he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do about it.

“Do you… Do you know that you were HYDRA’s prisoner?”

Silence. James’ head gives a sharp pulse. “I’m… I’m HYDRA’s Asset.”

He feels like he’s already told this to the Captain but the answer sounds unconvincing to his own ears and James is annoyed that it was voiced without him meaning to. He shakes his head as if it will dislodge any other sentence that’s ingrained in him.

Steve Rogers looks at him and lets a minute of silence pass. “Do you enjoy killing?”

James has the sudden urge to sock him in the face. Part of him wants to scream to Steve Rogers if he’s an idiot. He controls himself and breathes in, then out. His cold hand balls inside his pocket.

“No,” he says tightly, jaw clenched.

“But HYDRA forces you to and if you don’t do it, they… punish you.”

“Positive or negative punishment,” James nods along; finally something he understands.

“Yes, exactly. You do HYDRA’s dirty work under threat of violence and abuse.” It sounds so obvious when Steve Rogers says it. Why hasn’t James thought about it in the past month?

“Yes.” His voice trembles with the sudden realization. It feels like a wall has been smashed down and the bright light from the other side is burning him. His stump flares under the bandages, like a reminder.

“I…” He gets lost in his own brain filled with holes—he falls through one. “I don’t remember.”

“What? What don’t you remember?” Steve Rogers prompts, leaning forward.

“My mom… her name is Winifred, and-and I have a sister but I-I can’t remember her.” His voice has been rising with each word and his heartbeat increasing. His breath rattles in his chest.

“Oh, God.” It’s like a gate has been wide open. “What year is it?”

He sits up on the bed, back screaming in protest, stitched wounds pulling. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do but he just… _needs._

“I can’t… _Fuck._” He raises his hand to his chest and the IV is reaped from his arm; he doesn’t pay it any mind, unaware of his surroundings. He fears his heart is going to give out.

“Hey, hey. Calm down, James.” Someone else places a hand on his chest, not really pushing him down but _there._ James feels scared of the touch and at the same time longs for more. He feels its warmth through the layers and his hand wraps around the thick wrist.

“That’s it, lay down,” the man instructs, voice deep and soothing, reaching out for him through one of the holes in his mind where he fell into.

James slides into the pillows, chest heaving under the big palm. The hand tries to pull away but his own fingers only tighten around the wrist. Another hand slides around his bicep and squeezes, and touch has never felt like this when with HYDRA. “Control your breathing.”

Following commands is easy, familiar enough that he needs only a few seconds for his heart rate to drop. Steve Rogers is looking at him with something James can only describe as concern. He’s hovering over James and he has the need to pull away, feeling too exposed.

“The year is two-thousand-fourteen.” It doesn’t ring any bells, doesn’t prompt anything in his brain. He has no idea how much time he’s spent with HYDRA.

“I will help you, James.”

God help him but James believes Steve Rogers will try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the love, guys!


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! It's a Christmas Miracle!  
(at least it’s already Christmas where I am)

Caused by some kind of miracle, everyone is in the communal kitchen when Steve enters early in the morning. It’s six a.m. and even Ms. Potts is having breakfast at the table, tablet in one hand while she scrolls through the news. Had it been yesterday, Steve would have been glad to see the room so animated but today he had expected a… calmer ambiance.

“Hey,” he greets and only Barton lifts his head from his cereal bowl when Steve enters. Tony seems to be searching for the meaning of life at the bottom of his coffee cup and finding out that the answer is forty-two. On the other hand, Natasha is reading something on her laptop; it seems important judging by her concentrated face.

“Hello, Captain Rogers,” Ms. Potts says while she stands up and places her plate in the dishwasher. She seems in a hurry but she finds a moment to kiss Tony on the cheek and guide him to a free chair, a plate with scrambled eggs and bacon still steaming. Tony’s eyebrows lift as if he hadn’t noticed it until now.

“Thanks,” he says in a distracted kind of way and Ms. Potts frowns down at him. Steve is curious and wants to ask what is going on but knows it’s better not to get into other people’s business.

“Could anyone of you three make sure that he gets _at least_ three hours of sleep, please?” Ms. Potts asks with exasperation, one hand squeezing Tony’s shoulder when he opens his mouth to protest.

He must have spent the whole night in his lab. Steve has discovered in the last month or so that Tony is liable to do that if he’s left unsupervised for a long period of time.

“Of course,” Steve answers but Natasha and Barton are already nodding along. It feels like a request too personal for the relationship they have with the engineer but Steve guesses Ms. Potts doesn’t have anyone else to ask the favour.

“He’ll watch Dora and then we’ll tuck him right into bed,” Barton quips when Ms. Potts enters the elevator with a thank you thrown over her shoulder. Tony throws bread at Barton’s head but Natasha catches it just before it can hit him, then she pops it into her mouth with a smug smile.

“Ugh, why did I invite you all here?” Tony wonders out loud but Steve sees right through him—he’s sure Barton and Nat do, too. If he didn’t want them in his Tower he most certainly wouldn’t have made a floor for every one of his teammates, each different to accommodate the Avenger’s specific skill set. Steve knows Bruce has his own laboratory, Thor a wide balcony where to land when he visits, Barton a shooting range—he hasn’t visited Nat’s floor yet.

Steve clears his throat to attract his teammates’ attention. It works and he finds himself lost for words. “Um, I wanted to tell you that…”

Steve is starting to think Tony has instructed J.A.R.V.I.S. to interrupt him when he considers it less convenient. “Captain Rogers, Mr. James asks if he has permission to come to the communal kitchen.”

J.A.R.V.I.S.’ words hang in the air for a few seconds; Steve’s aware of everyone’s eyes on him. He has the feeling he’s not the only one who noticed the wording of that sentence.

“Er, yes, of course. Tell him how he can reach me.”

Silence.

“I talked with James yesterday.” Tony mouths a curt ‘aham’ and waits for Steve to continue. “Explained the situation he’s in.” Natasha raises one eyebrow while the other one lowers even farther. The result is an unconvinced expression.

“I told him he was a HYDRA prisoner.”

“You’re saying he didn’t know that already?” Tony asks with a note of astonishment. Steve’s somber expression is enough answer and Tony falls back on his chair, lips parted and eyes bright with stupefaction.

“Not only that,” Steve continues, “but he doesn’t remember who he is. He just… doesn’t know anything. Not the year it is, not his second name… How is that possible?”

“I may have some ideas,” Tony says after a minute of pondering the question. “I can’t be sure without having him pass some tests, though, and consult some people.”

“They must have done something to his brain,” Barton chimes in, eyes rising from his bowl, shining with sudden understatement. Tony points at him with a finger, as if saying “yep, that’s what I was thinking.”

“I’ll talk with some experts on the matter,” Tony assures.

Steve does a bit of hovering at the end of the table until Natasha asks. “How is it that they discharged him?”

“My employees were scared,” Tony says just before the elevator dings to notify them of James’ arrival. Natasha doesn’t look too happy with that answer.

Steve had felt the exact same way when Tony had told him. Still, Tony and he had ended accepting, believing it wouldn’t be good for James to be in an environment where people fear him or could even try to hurt him.

Steve gets up from his seat and makes his way to the doors before they open. James has his back firmly against the wall and carries an air of suspicion, clearly not at ease in the Tower and surrounded by its occupants. Steve tries to give him a reassuring smile but judging by the constant frown marring James’ forehead, Steve isn’t sure he succeeds.

“Hey, James,” Steve salutes with a ridiculous wave of his hand. He drops it by his side, feeling foolish, as if he’s interpreting a high school play—or the first time he played the role of _Captain America._

James mimics the wave and steps out of the elevator. He takes a quick look at the room and Steve can’t help but think that James is locating the exits. Then the man studies the four people sitting at the large table.

“Hello there, One-Armed Wonder.”

“_Tony_,” Steve says with a warning tone.

“How about we all go to sleep,” Barton offers and Steve feels like he should send him a bouquet of arrows as a thank you. Today he isn’t really in the mood to deal with Tony’s quirks.

Tony protests at first but Natasha and Barton each grab him by an arm and drag Tony into the elevator. “Welcome to my Tower, Robocop!” are his final words before the doors slide shut.

“Sorry about that.”

Steve turns to James who is staring at him. He has the feeling of being closely studied. Steve fights the need to rub at his neck or wriggle his hands until they turn red.

“So,” Steve says too loudly, making James startle and take a small step back. _Shit_, Steve’s mind provides. “Sorry. Um. This is the communal kitchen.” He encompasses the large space with a hand. He notes that Barton’s bowl is still on the table and he quickly rinses it and puts it into the dishwasher. Tony’s plate isn’t empty so, after wrapping it in cling film he puts it in the fridge.

When he turns around, James is inspecting the living space, pale hand resting on the back of the couch. Steve, making his steps obvious so as not to startle him, gets to James’ right. “This is the ‘rec room,’ as Tony calls it. I’ll introduce you to the others some other time.”

Steve doesn’t know why he expects more reaction than the man to keep staring. Trying to steer James to the left, Steve places a hand on his back and pushes lightly. This causes the man to give a sudden and uncoordinated step away from him. Steve opens his mouth but words fail him. James’ chest heaves with erratic breaths and his scowling has evolved into something that must be hurting the muscles on his face.

“Sorry,” Steve says with feeling. He gives a step back and lowers his hands. They itch; Steve wants to pat James reassuringly, tell him he won’t hurt him. If words won’t work then he’ll have to show it. “I won’t touch you again, I promise, James.”

The man’s face doesn’t change its expression but Steve sees his hand unclench at his side.

“We can go to your room now,” Steve offers in the heavy silence. James nods and Steve gets to the elevator and waits for the doors to open. James waits behind him but follows Steve into the cabin.

“You’ll stay in my apartment,” Steve explains. “You’ll have your own room. It’s pretty big.”

He had thought it better not to leave James alone. If something happens or he needs help, he will only have to cross the hallway and knock on Steve’s door. Steve is also the only person in the Tower that can contain a super-soldier if the case ever arises.

James doesn’t say anything and Steve feels the air getting more oppressing. When they finally get to his floor, Steve shows him the kitchen, the living room, and finally James’ bedroom.

“Where do I sleep?” James finally says. He has a little frown now, one of confusion, Steve believes.

Steve takes a step into the room and with a hand pointing at the king-sized bed says, “Here.”

James’ expression shifts into deep concentration. He opens his mouth, ready to say something but closes it. “On the bed,” he ends up saying. It’s not a question and it leaves Steve puzzled.

“Yeah.” A thought pops in his mind. “It’s firmer than it looks. I couldn’t sleep in beds that were too soft so Tony bought harder mattresses.”

Steve remembers that he hadn’t asked Tony to do it, he had just mentioned it one day and the next one his mattress had felt different, right.

He sees James give a curt nod—he better get used to interpreting different frowns and nods as a way of answer. James approaches the bed and sits at the edge, hand sinking into the comforter. “I like it,” he expresses and Steve feels himself smile for the first time in a long while.

“I’m glad you do.”

James’ head snaps up.

“Why?” he demands. James considers the bed with distrust.

“Because…” Steve isn’t sure if saying the truth will be the best thing to do. “Because you deserve it.” Though he guesses not a lot of people have been sincere in James’ life lately.

“Come, I’ll show you your bathroom,” he says before more questions can arise, ones he won’t have the answer to.

James stares him down for a little longer, eyes sharper than Steve has ever seen them, even on the occasions they fought and the situation took all of James’ focus. Steve shows him the enormous bathroom, with its shower stall at one side and the bathtub in the middle, its cabinets and large mirror. There already are toiletries for him like a toothbrush and toothpaste, shampoo and conditioner, soap…

James seems a bit overwhelmed so Steve decides to end with the tour.

“This is my bedroom.” He opens the door and feels like a teenager showing his room to a new friend. “You can come whenever you need something, doesn’t matter the time.”

James nods. Steve would have wanted more of a reaction, maybe a word or two but he knows that what he wants is of no importance. James is going to need a lot of help and if a way to help him is leaving him alone, then Steve will shut up and just do it.

“You can, um, go to your bedroom if you want. Close the door.” He feels his face heating up with every embarrassing second but he soldiers on, remembering James’ words asking if he had _permission_ to come to the kitchen. “Do whatever.”

“Okay.” James hesitates when he’s about to turn on his heel. “Thank you, Steve Rogers.”

Steve is speechless for a moment, his eyes not veering from James’. “Don’t mention it. And you can call me Steve—if you want, of course.”

“Thank you, Steve.”

Steve will take it as progress.

He follows James with his eyes as he walks to his bedroom. Steve catches him falter but James eventually closes the door with a final click. Steve hears the lock sliding into place and lets out a breath.

_Baby steps_, he reminds himself.

Steve needs a second to decide what to do next and when he finally does, he goes to the kitchen and opens _Youtube_ on his laptop. He goes to the videos he’s marked to watch later and chooses a recipe that will take him some time to prepare. He loses himself into trying not to screw up too badly and before he can realize it an hour has passed.

Steve looks around the apartment and finds it empty. After getting the table ready, he gets to James’ door and knocks his knuckles lightly against the wood. “Hey, uh, I made us some dinner.”

Steve’s brain fills in: “if you guys eat that sort of thing.” The joke would obviously get lost into anyone who isn’t Sam or Natasha and the only thing it does is make Steve’s chest hurt.

“If you want to eat you can just… come out,” he says to the door. There is no answer and he doesn’t hear anything from the other side. He waits for a few more seconds and then decides not to insist.

_He needs some time_, he reminds himself.

Steve takes his plate from the dinner table and sits on the couch, remote in hand. The TV is better than anything that will decide to roam his mind tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you’re having a good time and please consider dropping a comment to make my day better :)
> 
> I have to clarify that the “Tony seems to be searching for the meaning of life at the bottom of his coffee cup and finding out that the answer is forty-two” part is a reference to one of Douglas Adams’ books from _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ series. It’s a bit of a spoiler, I guess, even though the books have been out for more than 30 years.


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Happy New Year!!
> 
> My New Year's resolution is... to get a lot of comments! So drop your thoughts, people!

James slips out from under the bed when he hears Steve’s bedroom door close at eleven p.m. His bedroom looks enormous from this angle and it’s already making his skin crawl. He doesn’t return to the safe space under the bed and instead stretches his back. He’s still hurting all over but he knows his body will start healing like it’s supposed to in a few days, when all the chemicals have left his system.

The first thing he inspects is the dresser in front of the large bed. In the first drawer, he finds t-shirts and more sweaters, a lot black and grey but some are more colorful. James looks over his shoulder at the door; he wants to ask Steve if this is for him. He reminds himself of Steve’s own words when they were still in the hospital wing.

His hand is trembling when he opens the second drawer; he finds jeans and sweatpants. The third drawer is full of underwear and socks while the fourth and final drawer is empty—James makes sure of it.

James goes back to the first one and sinks his hand in the soft fabric to stop the shaking. He pulls out a t-shirt and throws it on the bed and then does the same with a pair of sweatpants—he doesn’t like the texture of the jeans.

James takes his time to change into new clothes, stopping to breathe deeply every time his body tells him _to fucking hurry, you have to hurry._ He needs to remind it that there won’t be any consequences if he dawdles. It takes him fifteen minutes to change into new clothes—the sweatshirt Steve gave him in the hospital room included—and his heart hasn’t stopped beating with unnecessary speed.

He turns the lights in the bathroom and searches the drawers. He doesn’t find mics or cameras. The same inspection is carried in the bedroom, too. Aside from the necessary cameras and microphones for the A.I. that James had already expected to find, he doesn’t discover additional surveillance equipment. That having been taken care of, he returns to the bathroom and brushes his teeth. While he looks at himself in the mirror, James realizes something: his eyes are blue. He’s not sure if he had forgotten about it or HYDRA erased that tidbit of information from his brain, too, not deeming it important enough for him to keep it.

His brush snaps in his hand and James looks down at it with eyes wide open. He rinses his mouth and the throws the broken pieces in a paper bin. James pulls a drawer open looking for a replacement—he plucks it right off the cabinet.

“No,” he hears himself say from afar.

_No no no_, his brain chants while he tries to put it back into its place but it won’t fit.

“Please,” his voice begs. He doesn’t feel his bandaged shoulder collide against another drawer, too concentrated on fixing what he’s done.

His hand is trembling too much for him to do anything with it, not even to solve a puzzle with only one piece. His stomach sinks when he drops the drawer and the sound echoes in the opulent bathroom. He holds his breath, so concentrated on listening that he doesn’t even notice the drops of sweat falling on the tiles. A door opens somewhere in the apartment and the Soldier can hear steps getting closer.

A knock on the door.

“James?”

He doesn’t move nor answer at first but he makes himself stand when Steve calls him a second time. He doesn’t want to, _he doesn’t want to_. Every muscle tenses. What the Soldier wants doesn’t matter because sooner or later the Captain will find what has happened—maybe the A.I. will tell him. Or he already knows.

James unlocks the door and opens it just a smidge. Steve is in pajama pants and a grey t-shirt that has written ‘S.H.I.E.L.D.’ on it. He seems concerned.

“Are you okay?”

James swallows but can’t answer, brain too focused on the question and what it is supposed to mean—_what_ is he expected to answer?

“I heard something,” Steve explains when James doesn’t offer any explanation. His hand is still holding onto the handle and he feels the metal dent under his fingers.

“James,” Steve says with insistence. It’s the moment he takes a step forward that James cracks.

“It wasn’t intentional,” he lets out as if the sentence were a single word.

The last time he fucked up a mission, James hadn't acted like this, all palpitations and weak legs. He had entered into the cabin with Maggie Clarke’s body over one shoulder, dumped it at Viv and Xin’s feet and waited to be debriefed.

Just more evidence that his malfunctioning is getting worse with the passing of time.

Steve raises his eyebrows at the outburst. “Okay. I’m sure it’s not a big deal. What happened?”

There’s a knot in his throat but James steps back and lets Steve enter the room. He lets go of the handle and flexes his finger so they’ll regain blood circulation. Steve looks at him and then at the bathroom’s open door, lights still on. After directing another look at James that he can’t decipher, Steve makes his way to the room, James following closely behind.

When Steve nears the counter, James stops and waits just outside—his breath refuses to leave his lungs. Steve kneels, lifts the drawer to inspect it, and then puts it back in its slot. It looks really easy when he does it.

James waits.

And waits.

Steve finally steps in front of him and James feels his muscles tense to a degree that’s painful. Steve puts a hand on his bicep. And that’s it.

“It’s fixed now.” Steve tries to give a reassuring smile but it doesn’t hold for long and then he’s looking at James with an expression of… James isn’t sure what is the exact emotion but it reminds him of that one time a technician dropped the coffee cup his daughter had made him at school and it broke to smithereens.

Now that James can breathe and he’s starting to feel light-headed, he can’t remember why he reacted in such a dramatic fashion, why his body’s first and only reaction had been to expect negative punishment. He knows that even his last handler wouldn’t have done more than sigh at his clumsiness, maybe even push him to a corner and tell him not to move.

_Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t_, says a little voice inside his head.

James blinks and has the feeling of coming back to his own body. His lips part and Steve’s eyes drop to them for a split second and then they’re back to his face. He isn’t standing too close to James but his hand doesn’t falter on the hold it has around James’ arm.

“Do you need anything else?” Steve asks in a voice soft enough that James doesn’t pull away. He shakes his head. Steve’s hand slides to his shoulder and squeezes it with a smile that's still uncertain and awkward, just like all the others he’s directed at James.

He leans a bit into the touch, curious about the feeling it evokes. No, it definitely doesn’t feel like anything HYDRA has done to him in the past. Not even like positive reinforcement, which consists of the HYDRA agents and the Soldier’s handler leaving him alone when he successfully finishes a mission. Touch is quite the opposite of the Soldier’s positive reinforcement and yet those two words fit it better than being pushed back into his cryo-chamber after spending hours ignored.

“Thanks,” James gets the word out before Steve has yet exited the bedroom. This makes him stop and turn; James can tell that Steve’s thinking about doing something but isn’t sure it’s the wisest idea.

“James, you’re safe here.” Steve gets a bit closer but James knows he won’t take another step forward. His muscles unclench a fraction. “I-I don’t know what you thought I was going to do after seeing the bathroom but I can assure you I’m going to treat you just like everyone else in the Tower.”

James would like to know what exactly that entails, being _safe_. Not receiving positive nor negative punishment for breaking something, for starters. So far, it sounds pretty good to James.

Not knowing what else to say and feeling drained now that the adrenaline rush is over, James nods his understanding. He averts his eyes when he catches disappointment cross Steve’s face.

“There is food in the fridge,” Steve informs him when he’s heading out the door.

“I can’t eat.” James can’t stop the words from getting out.

There is something in him that wants to cooperate and he’s not sure if it’s been triggered by his training or something else. The only thing he knows is that now he has a bedroom, he has clothes… It seems like he’s going to have to get used, not only to not being hosed down, but to the idea of speaking—or maybe these new frills will be taken away.

Still, in this place, what’s expected from James to do so he won’t be punished or disciplined, it’s different and easier than when he was with HYDRA. Or that’s how it seems now but James knows not to assume.

Steve steps back into the bedroom with an expression of deep confusion. James swallows and flexes his fingers. “Not solid food, at least.”

He can pinpoint the exact moment Steve realizes what he means by that. “We’ll find a solution.”

James is sure Steve believes that. He’s not that sure about himself but nods, nonetheless.

“There are protein shakes.” Steve steps closer, face bright with hope and it must be contagious because James feels his stomach flip. “Dr. Banner and Tony created a specific formula for me since I need a higher protein intake. I’m sure they can make one for you, too.”

James catches himself nodding along, transfixed in the other man’s hands while they gesture in the air.

“Thanks,” James says again but this time he tries to imitate Steve and his hand grasps the blonde’s arm. His body moves forward on its own volition when the skin burns under his palm.

Steve is watching him with attentive eyes. “The clothes aren’t doing a lot, are they?”

James removes his hand, embarrassed that he’s been caught. He shakes his head as an answer but keeps his eyes on the other man.

“I talked with Tony about it and he’ll try to find a solution but…” Steve trails off.

“There isn’t one,” James says. “HYDRA’s tried to fix it for years.” He’s not sure he’s supposed to know that but he does now. HYDRA had wanted to get rid of that defect in the serum so the Soldier wouldn’t get so many muscle contractures by maintaining his body in continual tension. It wasn’t good for the missions.

He also doesn’t know if he should be divulging that information since it’s HYDRA’s. He feels something cold pool in his stomach but he reminds himself he isn’t with HYDRA anymore. He doesn’t know what that means for him and his head feels heavy when he tries to think about his conversation with Steve the previous day and the one before that... How can a weapon be a _prisoner?_ A weapon that’s a prisoner to the same people that made him.

But, at the same time, how can a weapon have a mother?

Steve hums while he considers this new information and James is thankfully pulled away from the new thoughts Steve himself has planted. “We’ll give it a try. If Tony doesn’t find a solution, we’ll find an alternative.”

James, once again, doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say so he stays silent so as to not repeat himself with another ‘thank you.’

“Are you hungry?” Steve asks him.

James stays silent with a concentrated expression, as if he has to consult with his stomach and is waiting for it to give him an answer. The last time he received nutrients was last night when they unhooked him from the IV bag. A tray of food was left in his room this morning but he didn’t touch it, knowing what would happen if he ingested solid food.

“I’m not sure,” he answers, fearing it won’t be the correct response.

Steve doesn’t seem to mind the ambiguous answer. “How about we go to the kitchen and you can pick a protein shake? There are different flavors.”

Who would have thought that thinking can take so long? Steve waits patiently until James gives his approbation and they head directly to the kitchen. Steve stretches an arm to pick a box from a high shelf and James’ eyes fall to the patch of skin that’s uncovered by the t-shirt. He tries to shake off the image but his cold hand has a mind of its own and wants James to reach out and feel the warm skin.

He frowns at his own weird impulse.

“You all right, pal?” Steve’s voice breaks him out of his trance.

“Yes, sorry. Just got... distracted.”

He frowns at Steve’s waist, unable to look the man in the eye.

“It’s okay, happens to everyone.”

_Does it?_ James wants to ask while his eyes travel up to Steve’s neck and he imagines himself wrapping a hand around it just to feel its warmth. He’s shocked to realize it would be the first time he does that without following it with squeezing the life out of the person.

“Here,” Steve says and drops the box on the kitchen island.

James doesn’t think it possible but they proceed to make protein shakes of different flavors and Steve has him taste them until he finds the one he likes the most. It's a bizarre experience. They spend more than an hour in the kitchen and James doesn’t even notice time ticking by until Steve crowns banana and chocolate as the winner and promises to order another three boxes. For James.

Not for the first time, James tries to make sense of the way Steve treats him. Why try to keep a weapon warm? Why make sure his intake of nutrients also tastes good? There are so many questions he could formulate but it’s all trashed when his brain insists on one thing.

How can a weapon have a mom?

It makes his head hurt enough that he stops asking and wondering and just... _acts_. Without being given an order, James _does_. He drinks, and he thinks about how much he likes chocolate and banana flavor, and strawberry flavor, and dark chocolate flavor…

“I think we should head to bed,” Steve suggests after glancing at the clock. 

The man gets to his feet and stretches his arms over his head and yawns. James wants to ask Steve if he would let him get his hand under his shirt where it must be toasty, but even he knows that’s weird. So he only nods.

Steve walks James to his bedroom and wishes him sweet dreams—he winces the moment the words are out of his mouth. After an awkward wave of his hand, Steve leaves.

James won’t sleep that night, mind and body incapable of accepting that there is no threat to watch for, but he can feel his body healing and his stump has never hurt so little. On the other side of the hallway and through the closed door, James can hear Steve’s breathing and he concentrates on that instead of all the thoughts that try to drag him to a dark corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, listen, because I’ve made a few changes in chapters 7 and 9.
> 
> Maybe you haven’t paid it much attention, but Bucky has mentioned “negative punishment” a few times. The thing is, fanfics have made me believe positive and negative punishment are one thing when they are something different—and the same with positive and negative reinforcement.
> 
> When I started writing the story, I researched the four of them and I’ve needed some time to fully understand what each of them means so it’s been bugging me a lot that Bucky hasn’t been using “negative punishment” the right way. I had to change him saying in ch 7 “negative punishment” to just “punishment” and in ch 9 instead of “negative punishment” he says “positive or negative punishment.”
> 
> Thanks to SilverRowan_Ivy630951 for helping me with that problem even though I’m going in a different direction than first intended haha. I was going to make Bucky just not know what the terms really mean because HYDRA was using them wrongly to make him think they were rewarding him somehow (because that’s how the terms sound for god’s sake!) but my brain didn’t like the idea.
> 
> I’ll try to explain what each concept means and apply it to Bucky’s “training”:
> 
> Pos. rein.: A child cleans their room so they will be given a toy.  
(Bucky completes successfully a mission so he will be left unharmed) (thanks once again, SilverRowan!)
> 
> Neg. rein.: A car beeps until you fasten your seatbelt.  
(Bucky is hurt until he answers or does something correctly)
> 
> Pos. pun.: A child misbehaves so they’re scolded.  
(Bucky doesn’t finish a mission successfully and he’s beaten and/or locked up)
> 
> Neg. pun.: A child misbehaves and their toy is taken away from them.  
(Bucky doesn’t finish a mission and his arm and/or clothes are taken away)
> 
> I’ll maybe explain this concept later in the story but for now here you have the web that made me finally understand the differences between all of them:  
https://courses.lumenlearning.com/waymaker-psychology/chapter/operant-conditioning/


	13. Chapter 12

Steve has already had breakfast—yesterday’s leftovers—, visited Sam, spent two hours in the gym, practiced with the shield at Barton’s shooting range, taken a shower, and now he’s settling on his couch with a sketchbook. Steve believes he’d need to write a book of sonnets to express the awe he feels every time he looks through the large windows in Tony’s tower—also, how out of place. He only needs a few words to express how unworthy he is of living in such a place.

Steve wishes his mom could spend at least a day in the Tower, a day in this new New York with everything Steve could give her now. As a kid, he had spent a lot of time daydreaming about all the things he would buy his mom when he grew up. She’d died before he got the opportunity and even if she had lived longer… Well, for starters he hadn’t had much money and then he had traveled to the future in the form of a block of ice.

Steve has quite the collection of sketches of New York’s and Washington’s skylines but the action of drawing them once and again, sometimes from memory, brings him tranquility.

Steve’s drawing the Iron Man armor giving Hawkeye a ride when he hears a door slowly sliding open. Steve doesn’t lift his head because he already knows it’s just James getting out of his bedroom—for the first time today. He knows this primarily because he checked the box with protein shakes and noticed that not one of them was missing, and secondly because he asked J.A.R.V.I.S. He felt bad for prying but he wanted to make sure everything was okay with the man.

From the corner of his eye, Steve makes out James’ shape, shoulders hunched and head bowed, his hand inside the front pocket of his sweater—Steve notices it’s the one he gave the man a few days ago. James hesitates before entering the living room and heading directly in the kitchen. Steve can hear him only because of his enhanced senses but it’s easy to notice that James is trying to be as quiet as possible while preparing himself a protein shake. 

Steve acts as if he isn’t aware of his presence. He doesn’t want to just sit and ignore James, it doesn’t feel right, but he tells himself that perhaps that’s what James needs. Space and time for himself… to… be alone… and… feel his skin prick every time he makes a sound.

After a minute, Steve thinks it best to keep him company. He stops acting like he’s using his pencil for something more than drawing random lines and gets to his feet, leaving the sketchbook on the coffee table. He steps into the kitchen area and has a perfect view of James’ back and how it goes eerily still. Steve sees his shoulders rise to his ears and then the man turns into a statue. Steve feels like a threat, the enemy.

“Hey, pal,” Steve says, feeling like he shouldn’t be speaking, that he’s only going to make things worse. But he perseveres, knowing that right now James doesn’t have any other options aside from Steve. “The boxes arrived this morning. I knocked on your door but maybe you didn’t hear.” Steve knows James did hear him.

Steve gives a step forward and James’ muscles tense further, shifting under the clothing. Steve winces, believing such strain _must_ be painful. He still remembers the man’s body, black and blue, bloody…

Steve shakes the image away and gives a tentative step forward. He can’t see James’ face and he really needs to read his expression so as to know what is going on through his head, at least part of it. He had thought they had made progress yesterday, had seemed like James was more comfortable in Steve’s presence. Steve thought James had understood he isn’t an enemy.

Really naïve of him.

“James?”

Steve quickens his pace when he hears the man rasping for breath. Placing a careful hand on his arm, Steve turns him around.

James raises his only arm and stumbles back.

For a moment, Steve’s brain can’t register what is happening, what James is trying to do. He’s been Captain America for some years now—sometimes it feels like too many—, a figure people expect to help them, save them from peril. Even before the serum, when he was just Steve, he had done everything possible to give a hand to those who were in need of it. Now, Steve gets a glimpse of James’ face and feels horrified at the fear he sees there directed at him.

“James,” he calls out, voice already turning to the soothing tone he uses when he’s around the other man. Steve raises his empty hands so James will know he’s unarmed. “James, I won’t hurt you.”

Steve sights something else: James seems disoriented.

“You know where you are, pal?”

James takes a step back, arm lowering a bit as he takes a quick look at his surroundings. His eyes are huge and glossy, and Steve winces at the dark bags under his eyes, the only color on his ashen face.

“James, you’re in Avengers Tower, remember?” Steve prompts, staying on his spot. He can feel his heart beat with might inside his chest. “Do you know who I am?”

James finally focuses on him. His eyes are bloodshot and the delicate skin around them looks irritated. “Captain America.”

“Steve Rogers,” he corrects, keeping his voice soft. “I’m Steve and you are...”

He gives him a moment to think it over. His forehead creases and he shakes his head like someone trying to get rid of a problematic thought. Steve has to jump forward when the brusque movement makes James list to the left. He grabs his arm with one hand and his waist with the other and holds him in place. Steve looks closely at his face, searching for a sign of recognition.

A minute passes and Steve doesn’t find any; what’s more, James’ face scrunches up with further confusion.

What’s _even more_ unexpected, though, is having James himself take a step forward as to close the few inches between them.

Steve doesn’t believe it possible but there’s a final surprise when James’ hand gets under his t-shirt and presses against his side. A shiver runs up his body and a gasp escapes his lips when the cold skin gets in contact with his own.

Steve stays frozen in place, hands hanging in the air at James’ sides, unknown of what to do now. He concentrates on James’ breathing while it slows down.

“James?”

James doesn’t answer but his hand shifts slightly and Steve notices that the skin has warmed up a bit. Steve pulls his head away, trying to get face to face with James but the other man is looking away. Steve notes his gaze seems unfocused and he’s unsure of what to do next. Maybe it won’t be safe to try to pull him out of his daze, Steve ponders.

Slowly, Steve places his palm to James’ cheek. Even though he had already expected it, the cool skin shocks him. Gently, he turns James’ face and inspects it attentively.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.,” he almost whispers, “would you be able to tell me when was the last time James slept?”

Steve observes the glazed look, the drooping eyelids, and his thumb strokes the delicate skin under James’ eye. He thinks he hears the man exhale a little breath. He definitely feels it against his throat.

“According to my data, Captain Rogers, Mr. James last slept this Monday, around six pm.”

Steve stares in astonishment at James.

“Today is Thursday,” he says to no one.

James’ eyes are drooping and Steve cups his other cheek when he tilts forward.

“How is that possible?” He tries not to raise his voice but it still has a shrill note to it. “He was being administrated strong painkiller, how was he staying awake?”

“With sheer willpower, I would guess.”

_“Jesus,”_ Steve exclaims with feeling.

James grumbles something under his breath and tries weakly to pull away. His eyes still look distant. His hand stays firmly on Steve’s side.

“Do you want me to notify someone about the situation, Captain?”

“No.” The decision takes more time to be made than the answer to be voiced. Steve is not one hundred percent sure he’s making the right decision but taking into account what happened in the operational room, he deems it wiser to keep at a minimum the number of people accosting James. He prays he isn’t about to fuck up.

“It’s all right, pal,” Steve tries to soothe him. James exhales deeply and Steve can feel his body leaning into his hands.

“How about…” he starts with uncertainty. His eyes search the room. “How about we go to the couch, huh?”

Steve gives a tentative step in that direction and James follows, pliant. Steve wasn’t expecting it but maybe he should have, considering James’ background.

“You’re doing great, buddy.” Steve feels foolish saying the praise but he’s surprised to find that it makes James’ hand squeeze his side. Perhaps it was only a muscle spasm.

Steve guides him until they’ve almost reached the couch. Intrigued, he decides to try something.

“James, sit down on the couch.” Steve doesn’t have the opportunity to end the sentence with a ‘please’ because James is already dropping into a cushion. Steve stares at the man, appalled at himself for what he just did. Except for the stage, the scenario could be the same as the one in the videos Steve and the others found in the HYDRA pen-drive.

“No, no.” He drops down in front of James, uncertain hands fluttering over the man’s knees. James doesn’t look at him. “_Fuck._ I’m so sorry, James.”

He’s not going to answer, Steve finally accepts that, so he drags himself up and to James’ side. How is it that he’s only been his worst version around James? Maybe he should speak with Tony so they’ll relocate him to a different floor.

_Bad becomes worse,_ Steve remembers the words the way he’s been doing lately.

No, no. He’s not going to just entrust James to someone else, like he’s a burden he’s trying to get rid of. James is going to need time to get better and he will need someone to help him, Steve knows this well, and since at the moment no one can know James is alive, Steve is one of the few options the man has.

Steve’s head hangs between his shoulders and he lets himself calm down and think for just a second.

_Good God_, of course he’s not like HYDRA—like the woman that struck James with a stun gun when he didn’t immediately obey. Like the people who tortured a man and filmed it, their voices not having waivered once while they explained every atrocity they did to James.

Steve gets to his feet and takes the fleece blanket from the back of the couch. He pushes lightly at James’ chest to make him lean against the couch and sits on his right, throwing the blanket over the two of them. With his side flush to the other man’s cold arm, Steve waits for James to come back. Resurface.

He doesn’t, but after half an hour James falls asleep, head resting on Steve’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda really like the next chapter. Also, it's three times longer than a normal ch from this fic


	14. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enough of this slow burn

Disorientation is quickly followed by confusion when James’ eyes open. The lights are dimmed in the living room and he needs a second to orient himself and realize that he doesn’t know what he’s doing here, doesn’t know how he got to the couch.

James sits up and feels something slip down his chest the same moment his brain screams in pain. He looks and sees a blanket—definitely doesn’t remember that. He clings to it for a second longer, not comprehending why it’s warm. A second later, his ears register a voice and his senses finally check back online to warn him of someone at his right, crouching in front of him.

“How did I get here?” He didn’t intend for his tone to be so demanding.

Steve sits on his haunches, warm hand withdrawing from James’ knee. “I brought you.” James doesn’t like how that sounds and Steve must see it reflected on his face because he’s quick to elaborate. “You were making yourself a shake—do you remember that?”

He needs to think it over but James finally nods his head. He looks down at his lap, hand under the blanket running up and down his thigh. His muscles are tense but he’s not sure if to flee or fight.

He had spent the day in the bedroom, unwilling to venture outside. Until, that is, he’d heard Steve return to the apartment and James had finally decided that he could at least drink a protein shake, maybe inspect the bookshelves Steve has near the glass wall, since James had already inspected the one in the bedroom.

Also, seeing Steve hadn’t felt like a bad idea. Frankly, James had tried to get out of the bedroom on more than one occasion but his courage had shriveled every time his hand had come in contact with the handle of the door. His fear of the unknown more powerful than his curiosity of said unknown.

“I came to talk to you and…” Steve trails off. “I don’t know what happened exactly, it was like you weren’t… there.”

Steve is looking up at him with a furrowed expression James finds difficult to decipher. He gets to his feet and sits on James’ right. “Is this okay?”

James considers him for a few seconds.

“What?”

“Can I sit here?”

Steve Rogers makes his head hurt. What’s more irksome is that James knows he should get used to it.

“Yes,” he answers curtly and tries to slide to the left without being too obvious.

“J.A.R.V.I.S. told me you have to put lotion on your shoulder after cleaning the wound,” Steve says. This must be the reason why he woke him up, James concludes.

“Not until…” His mouth falls closed. It’s already night-time. “How-how much time…?” He can’t finish the question, too afraid that he’s lost time. He’d hoped it would only happen when with HYDRA or the times he was put back in his cryo-chamber. He had imprudently thought it would stop now that he’s here—in hands of HYDRA’s enemies. He’s just a weapon that’s only changed the hands that use it isn’t he?

_Weapons don’t have a mother._

_Weapons don’t have preferences._

James would like to shut off his brain. Being a weapon is what he understands and having his own mind challenging that is… rather tiresome, among other things.

“A few hours,” Steve answers, unaware of James’ spiraling.

He wants to ask what happened while he was unconscious, if Steve did something, but knows he wouldn’t get an honest answer. And even if the answer were yes, what is he going to do about it?

James feels his short fingernails dig deeply into the muscle of his thigh, a bruise on its way of healing aching under his fingers.

“James.” Steve puts a hand on his arm, touch slow and light. James looks at him from the corner of his eye. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

This makes him turn to look at the man. “What?”

“You’re tense. Something seems to be upsetting you.”

He turns his head away and after a split second looks back at Steve to study his face. He needs to know if he’s being serious (if this is some kind of test.) Steve seems honest enough, expression earnest. He’s really asking a weapon to—

James remembers again how Steve had called him a prisoner. Steve doesn’t know what James is, with what purpose he was created.

(James feels his body sag heavily on the couch, too exhausted from having to tread wearily with everything he says and everything that’s said to him.)

“What happened while I was unconscious?”

Steve’s mouth opens and then immediately closes with a sharp click of teeth. His face journeys through different expressions from which James recognizes a few he usually sees on his marks: confusion, understatement, shock—though not in that precise order, at least when it comes to the Soldier’s marks. Steve’s features finally settle on something disturbed.

James feels like he’s learning a lot about expressions and emotions just by watching Steve Rogers go through them every time they interact.

“You slept and I kept you company,” Steve finally informs him, reigning more control over his voice than features. “I promise, James. If you want, J.A.R.V.I.S. can show you the recording.”

James mulls it over and nods. Steve gets up and returns with a laptop. He sets it over his knees and turns it on. After a minute, James can see a video of Steve getting into the kitchen and trying to talk to him, eventually finding out that he would get better results trying to speak to a fish.

He looks closely but can’t find anything that indicates Steve has lied to him. He feels his shoulders drop with relief after this realization; he had been rooting for Steve’s version of events.

The video goes on and James watches himself and Steve side by side on the couch, sides flush together. His arm tingles and he almost feels an echo of Steve’s warmth. Or it could be that the man is close enough to touch. James slides an inch closer, as stealthily as possible.

“You needed sleep,” Steve points out.

“I don’t have my… chamber.”

Silence while Steve fishes for words.

“Your cryo-chamber.” James nods. “Do you remember ever sleeping while out of it?”

He probes his memory, fishing for something useful. “I’ve been unconscious,” he supplies finally.

James spots Steve’s hands balling into fists and he wonders if pulling away before the impact will be productive. “I-I.” He has to swallow, throat suddenly parched. “In the hospital.”

“You were unconscious after the operation,” Steve clarifies, as if it doesn’t count.

“Sorry.” The word chokes him on its way out.

Memories resurface but not ones that will be of any use. James knows apologizing never worked with HYDRA and now he remembers some of the times he tried to, before learning the lesson.

Steve’s fist hasn’t risen yet so he decides to try something else while he has the time. “It’s difficult sleeping out of it. Sleeping’s difficult.”

Steve gets to his feet, back turned to James so he doesn’t get to see him flinch away. His hand stays under the blanket which is already cold. He wearily eyes Steve’s tense muscles.

“They freeze you,” Steve voices, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “And that way you aren’t aware of being constantly cold.”

The words catch him by surprise. Steve turns when he doesn’t get an immediate answer and James forces his head to nod once.

“James, before we got to you, when was the last time you slept?”

James finds it odd that Steve is so determined on asking questions that will only upset him further.

“I’m not sure,” James says, aware that the answer is too quiet for a non-enhanced person to hear, even if they were to be a foot away from him.

Steve returns to James’ side, skin warm. James has noticed how Steve always makes sure to be on his right side. “What happened to you today,” he turns to face James, “was because of the lack of sleep, probably the stress, too. J.A.R.V.I.S., do you think it makes sense?”

“I do, Captain. Mr. James should get at least eight hours of sleep every night.”

“Or less because we’re enhanced,” Steve clarifies, even though James is aware of his durability and endurance. Steve hurries to add, “But more sleep is better.”

Steve looks intently at James, licking his dry lips. James feels like ants are crawling over his skin and now he’s not sure if he wants to flee or lean a little closer.

“Do you want to consult a doctor?” James is shaking his head way before Steve has finished the sentence. He looks like he wants to insist but his shoulders sag, defeated. “How about a shake? Sounds good, pal?”

James is transfixed by the last word and needs more than a second to signal his affirmation. Steve bolts to the kitchen then and comes back in less than five minutes with a shake in each hand. He passes one to James, forcing him to finally extract his hand from under the soft blanket. James drinks it, the sensation of hunger foreign to him and the sense of appeasement when it’s extinguished even more. Steve hands him the second one when he’s finished. He’d thought Steve had prepared it for himself.

“Thanks,” he says after putting the empty bottle on the low table in front of him.

“My pleasure,” Steve says and he’s wearing a thin smile, one that sure looks sincere, devoid of its usual awkwardness and uncertainty. James gives it a go and tries one himself; it seems to make Steve’s get bigger.

He’s struck by a thought. Perhaps Steve can’t find his footing either when it comes to James. Maybe Steve needs time, too, to understand how to deal with someone such as James. A weapon that isn’t a weapon; a person that isn’t a person. The same way James doesn’t remember ever meeting someone like Steve, Steve has probably never met someone like James.

One more time, he sits by James’ side. He feels drained now, even though he’s slept a few hours. Steve’s warm body makes his own tilt sideways until Steve slides closer, shoulders pressing together. His eyes feel irritated.

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

James gives a shrug, the question catching him by surprise, and Steve picks up the remote. His skin crawls and he can sense Steve’s tense muscles.

“By the way,” Steve says shifting on the cushion, “you better put this on your shoulder.”

Steve extracts from his pocket the lotion the doctor had given James when discharged from the hospital wing. He hasn’t been applying it to the wound for two reasons. James doesn’t know how to redress the stump since he’s always been dependent on HYDRA to do maintenance on him; the other reason is that his shoulder hurts constantly and James doesn’t want to do anything that could aggravate it. He’s had worse, but just thinking about his stump makes a knot form in his throat.

No one else needs to know this so he takes the lotion.

He hadn’t counted with having Steve stare at him, waiting for James to start the treatment for his shoulder.

After a minute stretches into eternity, Steve offers, “Do you want me to help you?” James bobs his head without daring to look at him. He had intended for his head to give a shake.

Steve doesn’t comment on it, doesn’t look annoyed that he has to do what James is supposed to do on his own. Steve goes to the bathroom and comes back a minute later, looking sheepish. “I thought about carrying a bucket with water to the living room, but I think it will be better if we clean your wound here. Is that okay with you?”

James answers by getting to his feet and relocating to the bathroom. Steve smiles at him and doesn’t comment when James leaves the door wide open.

“Here,” Steve instructs him, hand almost imperceptibly steering him in the sink’s direction.

_Warm._

Steve steps to his left (James fights the instinct to cover the stump with his hand, protect it) and waits for James to do… _something_. It seems Steve was expecting James to take off his hoody and t-shirt, which he points out. James makes sure Steve isn’t annoyed by his obliviousness.

“Let me help you,” Steve says when James’ muscles struggle to get rid of the garments fast enough.

James turns to face Steve and the man assists him. Good, he doesn’t seem pissed off. Even better, he has a slight smile adorning his face. James believes the man isn’t aware of it.

James raises his arm, eyes methodically set on Steve until fabric obscures his sight. Steve gives a little pull to free his head from the hoody and James stumbles forward. A hand catches him by the hip. James freezes in place and most of his brain activity is directed to that exact patch of skin.

_Warm._

He almost forgets to control his muscles and not let his body freely shiver.

“Sorry,” Steve murmurs and helps James get all the way out of the sweatshirt. He leaves it on the counter. Steve clears his throat. “Only the t-shirt left.”

The hand slides off his skin and James blinks.

What should he be thinking right now? Is it normal to want Steve to touch him? Just a hand on his side, his arm, his face. Like he’d seen him do in the recording but can’t remember it happening.

_(Who is gentle with a weapon?)_

A thing has been occurring of late but he hasn’t been able to ignore it since he woke up on the couch. He never felt overwhelmed after the Chair and he already knows that the longer he stays without being wiped, the worse things will get.

While hanging on that tree days ago (it must have been days, though he cannot know how many), looking at that little bird on the branch, James had itched with curiosity. At that moment, he’d wanted to know how many new thoughts his brain would come up with if given a chance. His chest had felt full with anticipation.

Now, he’s here, he possesses memories of a mother, of victims, of his own name that somehow doesn’t completely fit. Now he has an opportunity.

Now, when he looks at Steve’s face he knows he’s done something wrong, said something odd. He’s not acting the way a _person_ is meant to. Because that’s the thing, right? Steve Rogers is treating him like a person and expects James to react like one. But James isn’t one…

He can’t be…

He doesn’t remember being one.

_A weapon with a mother, a weapon with a name, a weapon that wants to be more…_

Now, when he’s about to start questioning (because he will) what he should be feeling, thinking, saying at a particular moment, instead of the flashes that cross his mind, he decides to build a dome around it all, the flashes and the _‘what should I_’s. James has the feeling that if he doesn’t do it, things will get out of control. His scalp itches when he tries to think about what will happen if he doesn’t control his brain’s impulses.

(Perhaps that’s what the Chair is really for and he’s in desperate need of it. Could he be a weapon with a fault that makes it think…?)

(He better not go there again.)

Steve takes the t-shirt by the hem and his knuckles graze James’ skin, shocking him out of his head.

James struggles to lift the walls behind which he can stow his qualms.

Steve’s face is serene when James resurfaces from the folds of the t-shirt. He stares a bit too long, feeling his brain settle.

“You doing okay, pal?”

“Yes.” He gulps. “Pal.”

Steve watches him with amazement written all over his face and James has a second to think how no one has ever looked at him with that emotion before. If you see the Winter Soldier you either run, scream or beg. Unless you’re HYDRA, of course. Things are pretty different with them.

Steve throws his head back and laughs. “Yeah, we’re pals,” he states with mirth, hand patting James’ bare shoulder. James pats Steve’s back in a state of amazement himself; the whole thing feels… good.

“I’m going to get rid of the bandages now, okay?” Steve warns him, hand lowering to his elbow. James nods, his own hand falling to his side.

After washing his hands and putting gloves on, Steve guides James’ body until he’s facing the mirror and that way he has access to James’ bandaged stump.

He’s seen dead bodies—he’s _killed_ people in many different ways that any human being would find horrendous, but James has to turn his head away so not to see the space where a limb should be. He sees the image reflected in front of him and his eyes shut tight. It doesn’t work.

James stares at Steve. The man has an air of deep concentration while he removes the dressing. James’ body remains tense but he needn’t be; Steve is attentive with the damaged area, taking great care to not irritate it any further or touch the stitches. When air finally hits his skin, James sees Steve’s forehead crease.

“Did they give you instructions about how to take care of the wound?” Steve inspects the shoulder without touching it.

They probably did but James can’t remember. He has the recollection of a doctor telling him how to change the dressing every day and applying lotion before going to bed—even if James hasn’t done it once since he was discharged.

“I think.” He’d thought to just say yes but he doesn’t want to lie. It’s been happening more often around Steve Rogers.

Steve considers him for a minute and then gives half a step back, James almost following. “Maybe you should take a bath.”

James wonders if Steve is trying to tell him he smells. He subtly sniffs the air and feels his face heat up when he realizes he _does_.

“Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.” Steve’s hand goes to James’ shoulder again and this time he takes the half step forward. His legs feel tired and wobbly. “Do you think you can do it by yourself?”

James considers it: HYDRA would have never asked him that, and if they had, he would have been obligated to answer affirmatively.

He shakes his head and his stomach unclenches when Steve’s face doesn’t shift to anger or disgust.

“I’ll help you, then.”

Steve squeezes gently his shoulder and goes to the bathtub. They wait for the water to raise enough and then it’s time for James to get undressed. His hand goes to his sweatpants and he toys unconsciously with the drawstring.

“Do you want me to help you?” Steve offers, just as James was expecting him to do.

James licks his lips and nods once. He’s able to do it by himself but makes the decision not to. Steve offered help and he _decided_ to accept it. Perhaps Steve lending him a hand (his brain is too focused on Steve approaching him to notice the irony in that sentence) will involve more contact skin-to-skin. He’s almost vibrating with anticipation.

“All right,” Steve says under his breath, not meant for James to hear. He stares at James with intense eyes and James feels as if he’s going to be given an important order. “If at any moment you feel uncomfortable, don’t hesitate to tell me.”

Steve’s face has turned so serious and earnest that James has to use his words, a simple bob of his head not feeling like enough in comparison. “I understand.”

“Good.” Steve smiles at him

(James remembers staring at the sky in the Indiana forest, waiting for the sun to come from behind the clouds)

and then his hands drop to James’ pants. Steve doesn’t linger and pulls down sweatpants and boxers in one swift movement. Steve kneels down and gets the socks off too, dropping everything in the hamper.

It’s different from when HYDRA stripped him of his clothes to clean him. It doesn’t feel like he’s going to be shoved against a wall so a jet of water can wash any grime off of him.

James’ pulse accelerates ever so slightly when Steve straightens up and looks at him.

_Warm_, his mind begs.

Without a word, Steve places a hand on his arm to steer James to the bathtub. James gets one leg in the water and a sound is punched out of him. It’s something strange, between a whine and a gasp. He quickly gets his other leg under the _warm warm warm_ water and then lowers himself in the tub. His body shakes.

“Feels good, right?”

His teeth chatter and he hugs his knees to his chest. Steve moves out of his field of vision and comes back carrying a washcloth. He tries to offer it to James but he only receives a scowl as an answer. Steve snorts a laugh but doesn’t force James to take the cloth.

“I assume you’re giving me permission to…” He raises a hand and points at James. “Wash you.” He nods, arm tightening around his legs.

In the silent bathroom, James rests his cheek against his knees and observes Steve soak the washcloth and then put body wash on it. His eyes fall shut when the fabric comes in contact with his back. His bruises and lacerations burn but only a sigh leaves his lungs.

“Mr. James,” J.A.R.V.I.S. chimes in. James doesn’t move even a bit from his position but his stomach clenches. “According to some medical webpages, it’s advisable that you do not keep your residual limb submerged for too long; it can soften the skin and make it more vulnerable to injury.”

“Thanks, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Steve answers. He makes sure that James’ stump is above water level and then continues washing his back. Rather different from being hosed down, indeed—James can firmly say that he prefers it much better.

_(Weapons don’t receive baths.)_

“Lean back,” Steve instructs after a while, the order strangely not sounding like an order. James complies and leans his back against the bathtub, eyelids heavy.

Steve raises James’ arm to wash it and then moves to his neck when he’s finished.

A sound escapes James and he feels Steve’s hand still. His brow knits until Steve’s movements resume. He blinks his eyes open, mere slits through which he observes Steve wash him. The man has the same expression of concentration as if he were in the midst of planning a mission.

Steve raises his eyes and they stare at each other for a moment. “You doing okay there, pal?”

“Mhm.”

He thinks he’s almost smiling, cheek tingling oddly.

“I’m glad, then.” Steve shifts on his knees to wash James’ legs.

James can’t wrap his mind around this; him in a bathtub, being taken care of by the person he had tried to kill and who had later tried to kill James in return.

“I didn’t want to kill your friend.”

James can’t believe he just said that—Steve seems in the same position. Hand stopping its motion, Steve glances up. “I know.” James observes his throat jump when he swallows. “But thank you for saying it.”

James feels like the thump of his heart against his chest should be creating ripples in the water.

James wants to say more, that he wishes HYDRA never used him against Steve and his friends. That he doesn’t want to be ever used like that.

“I’m going to clean your wound now,” Steve informs him when he’s finished with his feet. James wiggles his toes and stays silent.

Steve kneels on James’ left and looks at the stump for a long moment. “I think I should google this.”

James doesn’t understand that but doesn’t say anything. Right now he feels like his mind is completely blank, not even a wall behind which he could find something dangerous. He feels like the surface of an undisturbed pond.

Steve gets to his feet and exits the room. James looks at him when he returns, phone in hand. He sits down by James’ side and taps on the screen for a few minutes. James waits patiently in the warm water. He raises his hand but rapidly submerges it again when cold air hits it. Really unpleasant feeling; he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get out of the tub.

Right now, James can’t comprehend how he spent days perched on a tree with a blanket of snow covering him. He doesn’t want to be cold ever again.

“Okay, I think I know how to do this.”

Steve stands up again but this time comes back with a first aid kit. He plops down and takes in his hands what’s left of James’ left arm. James’ head snaps forward but he can still feel Steve cleaning and then drying gently the stump.

“James?”

His neck stays firmly turned in the opposite direction.

“Did I do something? Did I hurt you?” James can hear the distress in Steve’s voice but he keeps still. A hand is placed on the spot where shoulder meets neck—it’s strong and warm and it makes James’ lip wobble. Steve is relentless and he circles the tub until they’re face to face. James sags back.

“Hey, buddy.”

James sees it happen in slow motion and knows the walls are going to give. Steve’s hand raises and he places his big and warm palm on James’ cheek. It must be freezing in comparison. James’ eyes fall shut, a few slow tears rolling down.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

James knows these are only empty words but he doesn’t care. HYDRA never told him it was going to be okay, that it wasn’t going to hurts, that he had done a good job. His mom did. His mom always tried to make him feel better, say that things would turn all right in the end, even if she was struggling to believe it herself.

Steve’s forehead rests against his own for a while, hollow but comforting words being spoken by a soothing voice. His hand sleeps into his hair and James chokes out a whimper. Steve’s fingers card through the tangled strands.

“Will you let me wash your hair?”

James nods his eager approval against the other man’s forehead. He believes he can remember someone playing with his hair when he was a kid but it wasn’t his mama.

_(Weapons don’t have a childhood.)_

Steve pulls away, hand lingering on his cheek. He watches James for a little longer, thumb slowly rubbing the skin under his eye. “Do you think you could sleep after I redress your shoulder?”

James shrugs and he’s grateful when Steve doesn’t push for a more elaborate answer.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, I guess.” James is proud he caught the teasing tone in Steve’s voice.

James leans back and lets Steve take care of his hair and stump. Steve quickly circles the bathtub and starts on James’ hair. He pushes on his shoulders until his hair is submerged. His hand balls into a fist and his muscles strain when the water covers part of his face. Steve holds his head over water with one hand and with the other—

_Wow_, James almost voices the thought.

Steve’s fingers dig into his scalp and James doesn’t understand how he hasn’t dissolved into the water because that’s how his body feels. His hand digs into his thigh. Steve tells him to lean against the back of the tub and James complies, eyes closed. He starts lathering the shampoo and James can swear he’s close to purring like that cat he had petted in an alley years ago. It had taken him a few minutes, but the animal had started purring louder than a car’s motor.

He’s in a haze when Steve instructs him to get his hair under the water again and then to return to his position. When he starts on his stump, James almost doesn’t notice any of it, only warm fingers. Finally, Steve drains the bathtub and tells him to stand up and get out of it. James looks at him for a few seconds.

“Help?” Steve guesses. The only reaction James gets out of him when he nods it’s a new smile.

(James wants Steve to know how grateful he is for letting him communicate mostly with nods and shakes of his head and monosyllables, but the words keep clinging to the inside of his chest and refuse to exit his mouth.)

James gets to his knees and, with one hand on the rim of the tub and Steve’s arm around his waist, he makes it out without any accidents. Steve’s front is now soaked but he doesn’t seem to mind. James thanks him when Steve gets him wrapped in a bathrobe—everything is soft here, is James’ first thought. The second is that the bathrobe won’t be that warm once Steve is gone. He can’t dwell on it because then Steve starts drying his hair with a towel.

“It suits you,” he tells James when he removes the towel, James’ hair a complete mess. He’s smirking so James draws the conclusion that it must be a joke. Without giving it a second thought, James shakes his head energetically. He’s pleased to see through the strands of hair that Steve’s face isn’t only damp, but he sports a dumbstruck expression, mouth hanging open.

“You’re a fucking jerk,” Steve says like he’s just had a revelation.

_Maybe I am_, James thinks and it strikes him that he can discover what he is or isn’t. He really hopes HYDRA has decided to let go of their defective Asset—the weapon that thought itself a person.

They go to his room and James sits on his bed. Steve opens the dresser and asks James which pants and top he wants; he asks for sweatpants, a sweater, and socks. James doesn’t want to force Steve to do anything he doesn’t want to, but even before he can say anything, Steve tells him to stand up.

“As I told you already, if you feel uncomfortable with something I’m doing, just tell me. Or tap my arm,” he adds the last part as an afterthought. James lets him know he understands with another silent nod.

The bathrobe falls to the floor and Steve helps him get into his underwear; James shivers when warm fingers skim his lower back by accident. He’s aware of Steve’s closeness and is struck by how fine he feels with it—has felt for the last half an hour.

“Already cold, huh?” Steve says, lips an unpleased line. He seems to sink into his own thoughts while he helps James into a pair of sweatpants.

“Thanks.” He’s saying that a lot. Steve only answers with a smile but James has the impression that it’s turned a bit stiff.

“What are you thinking?”

Steve snorts a laugh at the question.

“About a lot of things,” he deflects and James feels his face fall—it took him a lot of courage to ask. “About what to do about your temperature, for starters; you’re always tense.”

He is and it’s caused by more than one reason, but James guesses that Steve is talking about him controlling his shivers by continuously keeping his muscles strained.

“I have a proposition,” Steve says. His face has turned battle-ready and James doesn’t know what to expect. “And if you don’t like it, you can tell me to go to hell.”

James’ attention is already caught; he leans forward with interest. Steve seems uncomfortable, seconds away from withdrawing an offer he hasn’t even presented.

“I guess you’ve already noticed that my body runs pretty hot.” James feels like laughing at the understatement. He keeps his eyes on Steve and doesn’t let himself believe Steve is going to say what has already sprung a couple of times on his own mind, only like an absurd pipe dream.

“I thought.” Steve huffs and rubs at his stubbled cheek. “I’m not going to beat around the bush: I thought we could sleep together—sleep in the same bed! _Jesus._”

Steve covers his pink face and James can only think about touching his warm cheek.

He doesn’t need to think for long, his brain already overflowing with chants of _warmwarmwarm._

“All right.”

Steve looks unconvinced. “Are you sure, James? I want you to really think it through.”

“I.” He grants himself a moment to find words—useful ones would be preferable. Steve waits patiently, a quality James thinks the man will need if he keeps dealing with him.

“How about you tell me after you’re dressed?” James isn’t totally pleased with Steve’s tone, feeling a bit childish. But at the same time, he believes Steve cares about the answer he will give him. So he answers with another nod.

Steve maneuvers James’ limbs until he’s dressed and he plops on the bed, feeling drained. Steve takes his feet in his lap so he can put on the socks.

“I want to sleep,” James states. Steve lifts his head, and for just a second James’ mind becomes too concentrated on counting his long lashes. “I can’t sleep if I’m cold. It’s difficult.”

Steve nods his understanding.

“I don’t hate it when… you touch me.” He catches Steve’s Adam’s apple bob when he swallows. He’s not sure of the emotion that has taken over Steve’s features but something in his chest doesn’t like it. His mom would have hugged Steve until it had disappeared.

“I.” He tries to voice another thought. Steve waits and James has to push the words out. “I don’t want you to feel… I don’t—”

He grunts when his head starts throbbing and the right words keep eluding him.

“Don’t do it because you feel obligated. Out of duty.”

Steve stares bewildered at him, body reacting with shock: his head snaps back, shoulders straighten, mouth hangs open.

“Damn,” he finally breathes out, blinking the shock away. “Anyone would think you’ve known me your whole life.”

Hands still on James’ knees, Steve regards him with a thoughtful expression that eventually turns into something more jocund.

“I assure you, it’s not out of obligation. I’m not forcing myself into anything, James, I really want to help you.”

James believes him—he’s been doing that a lot, lately. He takes a moment to internally panic about this sudden trust he’s developed.

He looks at the bed he’s sitting on and Steve immediately catches the meaning, already attuned to James’ speechless gestures. “I’ll go dress in my pajamas.”

Steve leaves the room and James sits in silence, hand fingering the fabric of his sweater. His brain takes advantage then and his neurons start firing up.

He doesn’t know what to do, how to feel, think, what to say… but it feels like a good starting point to do exactly the opposite of what had been expected of him while with HYDRA. Yes, perhaps imitating past behaviors he’s had with the people who made him a weapon is something to avoid if you want to become a person. James’ brain thinks it makes some kind of sense, a quality not a lot of things and situations have had since the last time he was on the Chair.

Maybe building up a wall to imprison his thoughts wasn’t such a great idea if he’s capable of coming up with such insights. James preens at being able to do more than handle a gun.

Steve comes back, now dressed in a grey shirt and his pajama pants. He has his toothbrush in hand and gestures with a smile for James to follow him. He rises to his feet and walks into the bathroom. James feels lightheaded but it’s not an unpleasant sensation.

Once in front of the large mirror, Steve scours through a cabinet until he comes with another toothbrush that he hands to James. He holds it up while Steve puts toothpaste on it and then on his own brush. He gives James a meaningful look and starts brushing his teeth. James can’t remember if this is a procedure he goes through after being thawed or if it’s done to him.

He eyes the toothbrush in his hand for a moment and then mimics Steve. The man is looking at him in the mirror and James can make out a grin around the froth. It’s such a silly image that he huffs a laugh and white suds shoot in all directions. James freezes with his eyes going wide. Steve starts laughing then, more suds dotting the mirror, and James feels his stomach unclench and then flip.

“Shut up,” he grumbles through the toothpaste and his stomach somersaults when Steve keeps laughing.

Steve finishes first and rinses his mouth. After patting James’ back, Steve tells him he’ll be waiting in the bedroom. James hurries and follows the other man. Steve is under the blankets, frowning at his phone but he sets it on the nightstand when he sees James enter. He slides from one side of the bed to the other and pats the free spot.

James nears the bed and observes Steve. The blonde seems to have turned hesitant and if the only sane person in the room is having doubts… James’ arm wraps around his middle and his head turns to the door that leads to the hallway.

“James.” Steve looks at him with a reassuring smile.

One good night’s sleep, he reminds himself. Maybe not even good but mediocre; better than nothing followed by more nothing for days.

_Warm_, his brain chimes like an alarm, sounding almost vicious. He’s intrigued to know what if feels like when your body is at a normal temperature.

He puts a stop to the surge of discouraging ideas that cross his head in droves.

James climbs under the blankets, already warm thanks to Steve.

“Can I turn off the lights?” James assents, pulling the blankets over his shoulders and to his chin.

Steve settles on the right side of the bed. They’re not touching and James can still clearly feel on his skin the heat that Steve’s body is producing. It makes something akin to anger bubble in James’ chest, even though he knows it’s not Steve’s fault.

He feels the bed dip further when Steve slides the few inches between them, their arms brushing.

“I think there should be more contact for this to work.”

Even after the few time they have spent together, James is already able to picture Steve’s uncomfortable expression. He turns his head on the pillow; even in the dark, James sees what he’d already been expecting.

“Okay.”

James starts turning on his side until his stump presses against the mattress and pain flares up his shoulder. He settles on his back again and tries to breathe evenly.

“Maybe you should turn on the other side.”

James fights the desire to answer with a sarcastic retort. He just wants Steve to stop feeling so awkward so he won’t make James feel guilty. His brain is already telling him this is his doing.

James isn’t prepared when Steve’s chest presses flush to his back. At first, the sensation borders on painful, like being submerged in boiling water. Then his body starts adjusting to the change. James’ eyes close tight when Steve wraps a hesitant arm around his middle, the skin of his abdomen soaking up every bit of warmth.

“Good?”

James forces his head to move in a nod when a knot forms in his throat.

Steve shuffles until their bodies have completely aligned from head to toe. James can feel hot breaths on the back of his neck and goosebumps rise on his arm.

“I’ll keep watch while you sleep.”

It’s in that moment that James’ body melts into the hold, eyes closing and respiration slowing down until he falls into a deep sleep. James is certain that waking up next time will be a completely new experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like this chapter and at the same time I feel like it’s a mess. I’ve edited it so many times already that I don’t want to read it for a long time.
> 
> Also, I did quite a bit of research on residual limbs (stumps) and how to take care of them. Most of it I won’t be giving it any use in real life or even this fic but welp.
> 
> Just remind you I have a few more fics. If you like this one you can take a look at the rest.


	15. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky?

Steve isn’t sure what he’s looking at or what is tickling his face until he blinks away the remnants of sleep. His arm secures its hold around the warm body and Steve buries his face in the dark hair, inhaling the scent of shampoo and something else that must be James. The man mumbles something about an eel eating his shoe and Steve has to hold in a laugh.

The windows are darkened but there is still some light for Steve to discern the furniture. If it were any other day, Steve would be getting out of bed, but this morning is different.

James moves in Steve’s arms, restless, and Steve whispers words he hopes are soothing. He settles after a few minutes, tension leaving his body and Steve can sense the muscles unclenching and leaning against Steve’s chest.

The warmth under the blankets is enticing and Steve doesn’t want to move from his position even though his right arm feels numb from spending the night lying on it. Steve rubs James’ arm, making sure it doesn’t get cold. He covers it with his own and James shifts to his back. Steve keeps them flush together and James lets out a peaceful sigh.

Steve had expected the sleeping arrangement to help but he hadn’t got his hopes up. Looking at James’ slack face, devoid of any stress lines, Steve realizes how much this has actually helped James. His fingers graze the parts of James’ face that tend to wrinkle with stress, now smooth. What Steve wants to see again are the laugh lines that appear around James’ eyes when he smiles.

James scrunches his nose as an effect of fingers tickling his face and Steve burrows his hand back under the blankets. He settles it around James’ middle and decides that he can sleep for a few more hours.

The second time he wakes up isn’t that pleasant. Steve finds himself pinned on his back with a heavy weight pushing down on his chest.

“_Steve_,” someone hisses and Steve needs a moment to identify the voice.

He blinks up at the wide back that’s in front of him.

“What-what is going on?” Steve questions his reality. The person doesn’t move from his spot. Steve blinks away the cobwebs of sleep and finally recognizes James.

“You tell me,” Natasha fires back. Steve can’t see her because James is positioned between the two of them.

Steve sits up on the bed, James getting his weight off Steve’s chest and shuffling forward on the bed. Steve rubs at his eyes. “What time is it?” There is light streaming in the bedroom, windows not dark anymore.

“Ten,” answers a different voice. Tony.

Steve frowns; what is everyone doing here? He makes to move around James when the man himself raises his hand and pushes Steve back. Steve tumbles backwards on the bed, a silly image of a turtle on its back.

“What…” he huffs out.

“He’s been on guard dog mode since we woke him,” Tony says though it doesn’t clear anything up.

“Don’t call him a dog,” Steve snarls before he can think his words over. It leaves the room in silence.

Steve climbs to his knees and inspects the situation he’s woken up to. His attention is first drawn to James. The man is crouching on the bed, muscles visibly taunt under his clothes and body ready to spring into action. Steve wants to see his face, read his expression and understand why he’s behaving like this. Who exactly does he identify as the enemy in this situation?

Past James is Natasha, Tony, and Barton, as well. Nat’s eyes are trained on Steve but he knows she’s vigilant of James. Her arms are crossed in front of her chest and Steve sees the flexed muscles the same way he’s aware of the anger flashing in her eyes. On the other hand, Barton and Tony are attentive to James and aren’t hiding it. Steve believes Tony has already activated one of his armors to aid them if anything were to happen.

“What are you doing here?” He keeps his voice calm.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Steve doesn’t know what she means by that.

“I live here, this is my apartment.”

Steve shuffles slowly and tries not to jolt the bed too much until he’s on James’ right side. His long hair is obscuring part of his face but Steve can see the concentrated expression—it reminds him too much of the times he’s fought the Soldier.

“This is not your room, Steve.”

Steve spares half a second to look in Natasha’s direction; she looks pissed off but he doesn’t have time for that right now.

“James.” There is no visible reaction but it’s not like Steve was expecting any.

“Hey, buddy.” Steve catches a facial muscle twitching and clings to that little hope. Steve sits in front of James and tries to catch his eye but he’s staring at the other three people in the room.

“James.” He touches his arm. No change. Perhaps he should ask them to wait in the living room while he deals with this.

“Steve,” Natasha hisses out his name like it’s a slur. Steve would like to know what‘s that about but right now it’s not the time and he tells her just that. He doesn’t see her face but he knows Natasha did not like being ignored.

Steve tucks a strand of hair behind an ear and lets another second pass, expecting some kind of change, _any change._ Things were going so well and something as small as this just made James regress so many steps back on his recovery.

_We haven’t even had time to address his recovery, for fuck’s sake._

Doubt is pooling in Steve’s stomach, again. There’s probably a better option than Steve, someone that will do better when James needs help while they find a way to give him real treatment.

“Steve!”

“Nat, just give me a fucki—!”

James pushes past Steve and plants a foot on the floor. Steve can see in his unyielding eyes, irises dark as a storm whipping the ocean, that he won’t be stopped with words. The moment he tries to take a step forward (Steve notices that Natasha has already taken several herself), Steve grabs James by his midriff and pushes him to the bed.

“Hey, hey, pal.” He straddles his abdomen and catches his arm before James can push him off. “James, buddy, come on.”

Steve hears metallic steps behind him.

“Don’t you fucking dare, Tony!”

Steve makes the mistake of turning to glare at Tony in his Iron Man armor, giving James the chance to overthrow him and get back to his feet.

_Shit shit shit_, his mind submits in a panic.

Steve hurries to reach James. Natasha has already a gun in her hand and Tony has risen his gauntlets. It doesn’t seem like neither one of them is going to fire the first shot but Steve can’t rely only on that. He positions himself between James and the others and grabs the man by the shoulders.

“James, stop!” He pushes ahead and Steve struggles to contain him now that James isn’t starved or having infected injuries. “James, look at me!”

“Steve, it’s not going to work,” Tony says and Steve has to grit his teeth so as not to yell at him, at any of them. “I can lock him inside a suit and get him to the Hulk’s room.”

“_No!_” Steve can’t even make himself imagine doing that to James.

With a feeling of foreboding, Steve’s hands travel to James’ face. His words tremble on their way out. “Come on, James, snap out of it. You don’t have to do this, you’re safe here.”

James stops pushing against Steve’s hold. No one tries to come with more brilliant ideas. “You’re safe, buddy.”

Steve’s heart, already beating like crazy against his chest, flutters when James blinks and some awareness seems to come to him. Steve waits, still holding the man’s face between his palms. He brushes a stubbled cheek when James’ eyes close tight and a frown appears. James groans.

“Hey pal, you with me?”

“Pal,” James grumbles under his breath and Steve could cry with relief, truly. It doesn’t even sound like the man knows what he’s saying but he’s definitely more conscious of his surroundings and his actions.

“Do you know where you are, James?” he prompts.

“Steve.” He sounds exhausted and Steve doesn’t want to force him to do anything if he doesn’t have the strength, but they can’t just ignore what happened. He can’t help but feel anger directed at his teammates for the chain of events that just took place.

“I’m sorry but I need you to answer some questions.”

James gives a resigned sigh and his head falls to Steve’s shoulder. On its own accord, Steve’s hand finds a place at the back of James’ head, fingers tangling in dark strands of hair.

“Do you know where you are, James?” Steve asks in a low voice. His eyes don’t set on his teammates and he lowers them to the floor, paying close attention to James’ breathing.

“Tower,” James answers and sags a little further into Steve. He runs blunt nails over James’ scalp and gets an arm around James’ body to support him.

“That’s right, we’re in Avengers Tower.” He feels James’ chest against his own when he breathes and Steve feels like a piece of shit for having to ask more questions. “Do you know the year?”

This time James needs a minute to find an answer. “Two-thousand-fourteen.”

“That’s right, buddy,” Steve encourages when he feels James sag even further. “How are you feeling?”

James doesn’t answer but Steve hears his ragged breaths. “I need you to tell me these things, pal. You have to tell me when you’re not feeling well so we can do something about it.”

“My head,” James finally gasps against Steve’s skin. Steve curses under his breath. “It hurts… It hurts _so fucking_ much.”

James’ own hand goes to his head and Steve lowers his to James’ nape. James’s hand curls into a fist and it presses against his skull.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be okay.” Steve’s told James so many lies that one more won’t make him a far worse person than he already is. James grunts like he knows Steve’s words are hollow.

Steve drags James to the bed and his body falls like a dead weight on the mattress. He helps James to get under the blankets when the man squints at the bright light. Steve asks J.A.R.V.I.S. to dim the windows.

“Better?”

James tries to open his eyes but another grunt of pain tells Steve that nothing is getting better, far from it. Kneeling by the bed, Steve can only look at James’ screwed up face and feel impotent and impuissant. James turns on his side and curls up in a ball, face turning into the pillow.

“What’s wrong with you?” he spits out once he’s risen to his feet and can face the three people still in the room, staying close to the door. Tony is out of his armor and Natasha has put away her gun. He can’t read her expression but that doesn’t mean much when it comes to her. Maybe she’s still pissed off, maybe she isn’t anymore.

“We didn’t think it was going to trigger him,” Barton says. He looks apologetic but it’s not enough to stop Steve’s blood from boiling.

“Why don’t you answer what you were doing in bed with him, Steve, and stop evading the topic?”

Steve feels like someone just slapped him. He feels cold all over.

He gives a step back and finally realizes what is going on, what his teammates think has happened during the night. He’s able to understand it like someone who’s been looking at a painting from far too close, saying they don’t see anything. His stomach churns and Steve thinks he’s going to be sick.

“What do you think I was doing?” Steve says, tone just as glacial as James’ skin. He thinks back to those alleys in the Brooklyn of years ago and how his body had felt just like now, ready for a confrontation, damned be the consequences.

“It’s an easy question.” Her tone is just as unyielding as his own.

“Do you think I _raped_ him, huh?” Steve is not going to beat around the bush. He tries not to react at the groan that comes from the bed.

“Hey now, this is getting ugly,” Tony intervenes, hands rising in the air. “Hug it out, come on.”

Steve and Natasha stare each other down and Steve looks away only because James makes another sound of discomfort. He returns to his side. There’s nothing he can do but it makes him feel better and he hopes it has the same effect on James.

“I was helping him sleep, okay?” Steve says grudgingly. Having someone, especially Natasha who he considers a friend, believe him capable of such a thing, doesn’t sit well with him. “My body runs hot, his body runs cold. I asked James if he wanted me to help him not feel like an icicle for a change so he could sleep, and he accepted.”

James’ eyes open slightly for half a second and Steve can’t help but give him a smile. James’ lips move and Steve waits for him to speak, but it seems to be too much of an effort.

“You think he can consent?”

“Nat, come on…” Barton says.

Steve stops himself from snapping at Natasha and tries to see it from her point of view. He takes a deep breath before trying to say anything else.

“I understand you, Nat.” He catches surprise in her expression before she can school her features. “And I’m really glad your first reaction was to make sure no one was taking advantage of James.”

One more deep breath and exhale of air. “But I won’t let you insinuate that I’m the kind of person who would do something like that. The only thing I want is for James to get better, whatever that entails.”

Natasha seems to mull his words while she’s observed by her teammates. Tony seems to think that they still need the Iron Man but for different reasons than a minute ago—Steve can see it in his tense hands and his sharp eyes trained on the Widow.

“My choice.” The whispered words take him by surprise. Steve looks at the others, wanting to see if they’ve heard it, too. He can’t comment on it because Natasha is giving a curt nod and saying, “I think you will want to hear what Tony’s got.”

The change of topic gives him whiplash but Steve decides that it’s best not to push. He looks at Tony and lifts a brow, awaiting. He doesn’t expect Tony to walk to the bed and sit on it. Steve forces himself not to rise to his feet when Tony grabs James’ ankle as a way to get the man’s attention. 

“I think I found your name,” Tony tells James. Steve needs a second to dawn on him that he isn’t talking about the name they already have.

James perks up at that, though it only consists of him getting his head out of the blankets.

“I’m going to need you to confirm if you’re Sargent James Buchanan Barnes. I have some money on this.” He has the gall to end it with a wink.

Steve feels James freeze under the blanket and his own eyes go wide with incredulity and consternation. He feels time freeze for a moment, too.

“Bucky?” Steve hears himself say. His eyes open wide and his mouth hangs open before the impossibility. His brain buzzes.

A distressed sound comes from his right and Steve turns to see James—

_Bucky. Bucky Barnes. Sarge._

“Bucky?” Steve says again, this time directed at the owner of the nickname. The man in question is covering his face with a hand. For a second, Steve thinks he’s trying to claw his skin off.

“I think you should leave,” Steve instructs the Avengers, unable to take any more of James’—_Bucky, all the Howlies had called him Bucky._ He can’t see Bucky like this and just do nothing.

He expects someone to object but Tony gets up and, with a concerned face, heads for the door, walking backwards. Barton seems to want to say something but doesn’t. Natasha is worrying her lip but Steve knows she will discuss whatever they need to in a more appropriate time.

“I’m looking for specialists to help him,” Tony says from the door. “It’s slow going because of that pesky little detail of how no one can know he even exists and because he’s enhanced.”

“And now we know he’s the longest P.O.W. in all of history,” Barton points out and Steve winces at that. His own questions can wait, too.

Barton stares for a little longer at the man on the bed. His face is pale and he needs Tony to nudge him so he will get into motion.

“Thanks,” _Bucky_ grunts through gritted teeth and instinctively Steve tries to soothe him, hand stroking his ashen cheek.

Next time he glances at the others, everyone has left the bedroom.

“Are you cold?” His voice cracks and he needs to clear his throat. “Do you want me to get under the blankets with you?”

Bucky nods his head vigorously and the movement seems to worsen the pain. Steve doesn’t waste any more time and slides behind Bucky. A hysterical laugh threatens to escape his throat when Steve realizes that HYDRA’s Winter Soldier was addressed as _Bucky_ by his fellow soldiers.

Bucky turns and burrows impossibly close to Steve. He gets his arms around the man and clutches Bucky to his chest.

“Bucky,” Steve hears him mumble, voice hoarse but still carrying its characteristic softness. “I’m Bucky.”

“Sure you are, pal.”

Steve puts his lips to Bucky’s forehead and tries not to focus on the protective instinct that’s been blooming in his inside and how he can feel it expanding and taking over.

Bucky grips his t-shirt and presses into Steve’s body.


	16. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t post this sooner because I wanted to finish writing chapter 18 first. I haven’t but I at least I got out of my block.

The Soldier—

James—

_Bucky_ doesn’t fall asleep but he does feel like he’s floating inside a dream. He can hear his mom’s voice calling him, he hears his little sister calling for him, he hears… so _many_ people. So many are saying his name, speaking to him, laughing with him, yelling, screaming, whispering. Because once he was a person.

He was Bucky Barnes, son of Winifred and George Barnes. His little sister was called Rebeca. _Becca_. Oh God, his little sister, with her dark hair, her dirty knees, her dimpled chin. (He has a dimple in his chin too, he remembers now, doesn’t just know it as a fact because he looked in the mirror.) She was his emergency contact when he went to war in 1943. The first to be notified of her brother being killed in action.

His skull is going to split open like a ripe fruit.

Bucky doesn’t want that to happen.

He wants the memories to stay inside his head.

“Becca.”

“What?” asks someone’s voice. Bucky feels like he would be able to tell who it belongs to if he could concentrate. But his head. _Oh God, his head._ He doesn’t want to lose his memories again. He doesn’t want to lose his sister.

“My sister,” he pants. “Her name was Becca.”

He hopes someone is listening.

“She hated pigeons, was terrified of them.” Bucky laughs over the excruciating pain. “She stole food from my plate because… She said she wanted to grow as tall as me.”

He feels pressure on his back. It’s in the shape of a hand and it doesn’t stop his brain from burning up but it feels like an anchor. Bucky takes a deep breath and stares at the dots behind his eyelids.

Bucky remembers more and more. Remembers her favorite dress and proceeds to describe it in detail to whoever is listening. Remembers her drawings, her friends, her shoes, her laugh, the way she pouted when she mimicked his own angry pout.

“She must be older than me.” The realization is punched out of him and he can’t stop a devastated cry from leaving his throat. “She’s dead. Oh God, she’s dead.”

Bucky’s face is damp and it feels hot, his eyes burn inside their sockets.

Bucky is thrown into the past. His head is spinning and the only thing that feels real is the arms wrapped around him. It feels like he’s being rocked and images of his mother are pulled from his brain, one by one like the threads of a fraying shirt. They tried to burn her off his brain. They tried to erase her and they accomplished it for decades. He let them do that.

“…fault. Bucky, it wasn’t your fault,” the voice reaches him again and he’s pulled back into his body.

He’s swallowed by darkness and then spat back out.

Bucky’s on his back and the first thing he notices is that his body feels like a ton of bricks. The second thing is that there is something damp on his forehead. He groans and tries to raise his hand but, as already stated, his body is making an impression of a ton of bricks.

“Bucky?”

He tries to orient himself opening his eyes. He’s not home and it’s not 1943. He knows he’s not still with HYDRA because they never called him Bucky—they probably forgot about the nickname after a few decades.

A hot hand touches his hot cheek and he groans. His eyes blink open and he hears someone exhale.

“Buck.”

He needs another moment to associate a name to the face hovering over him. White man with blonde hair sports a frown of concern. Blue eyes.

_Steve_, his brain supplies and then it clicks into place. Steve Rogers. Captain America. His mission. Failed mission.

“Steve,” Bucky croaks and his throat feels raw.

“Yes.” Steve’s face brightens like Bucky’s just told him he has the solution for world hunger. “You were out for almost an hour. I got worried.”

That’s a strange thing to hear but Bucky doesn’t voice it. He’s about to say something, though, when he notices someone else in the bedroom. He scowls at Tony Stark, searching into his brain for something that will explain his presence.

“What did I do?”

He must have done something if so many Avengers are guarding him. The Black Widow isn’t looking at him but Bucky knows for a fact that she’s aware of every one of his movements at all times, the same way he is of the rest of people in the room. Tony Stark, as Steve had told him he was called, is speaking quietly with his A.I. and doing something in his phone while Clint Barton hovers near the Widow.

“You didn’t do anything.” Bucky raises an eyebrow at Steve. “You may have tried to attack someone.”

Bucky nods and tries to sit up propped on the pillows.

_Soft_, provides a part of him that isn’t lucid yet and wants to drag him back to unconsciousness.

Steve hurries to help him settle and Bucky isn’t sure if thanking him for being so considerate will be too repetitive at this point. He’s drained and part of him feels like crying at the mere idea of someone going out of their way to make him feel… better. Now that he has recovered memories, that he has a better understanding of what being a person involves, Bucky can reason that Steve is just being a good person, that he would do this for anyone who needed it.

“I feel… hot,” he says, scowl deepening at the feeling of his aching body’s elevated temperature.

“You are,” Stark confirms. He lifts his head and flashes a smirk at Bucky. “And you have a fever.”

“I don’t think it’s the right moment,” retorts Barton. He’s now sitting on the dresser in front of the bed, arms crossed and legs dangling. Bucky can only blink stupidly at the exchange.

“Your immune system is in a pretty shitty state so you got yourself a fever,” Barton helpfully explains.

Bucky hears a snort from his right where Stark is sitting in an armchair. “A super-soldier caught the flu.”

“It’s not funny, Tony,” Steve snaps. He looks nervy. He sighs a breath of irritation and sits at the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Bucky shrugs. Saying “like a piece of shit that got run over by a tractor” won’t solve anything and he already knows how hard it is to fight the serum on anything, be it something beneficial for the body or the opposite.

The Widow is looking intently at him now and she isn’t trying to mask it. Bucky isn’t in the best of conditions so the chances are high that she would be able to defeat him in combat or at least do some damage. He may as well try to headbutt her and instead knock himself out. _That_ had been an embarrassing experience. Bucky hopes HYDRA has that recorded; if they see their weapon failing in such a way they surely won’t want him back.

“Here.” Steve thrusts a straw in front of his face and Bucky realizes how thirsty he is. Drinking is painful.

“I don’t remember attacking anyone,” Bucky rasps. He’s reached the conclusion that if everyone is hanging out in his bedroom, it’s because there’s something to discuss.

“Does it happen frequently?” Barton is the one to ask. His arms are still crossed and he’s leaning forward. He’s sporting a somber expression but he isn’t trying to appear threatening.

“I’ve…” He tries to find a way to express it. “Sometimes, with HYDRA, I’ve been in one place and the next time I’m aware of my surroundings, I’m in a different one. Without remembering how I got there.”

“You lose time,” Stark says. Bucky nods because that’s exactly how it feels. He turns to Steve but the man is looking pensively at Stark.

“Did I hurt someone?” He’s already inspected the Avengers closely from his position and he hasn’t noticed any visible injuries, but he needs to be sure.

“No, you didn’t,” Steve assures. His hand lays on the bed and Bucky feels like it should be patting his shoulder.

“_But_,” Barton remarks, one finger springing up in front of his face, “you did try to protect Steve from us in a _really_ resolute way.”

Bucky turns to Steve, confused. The blonde tries to form a sentence but ends ducking his head. “He wasn’t—”

“Shut up, Steve,” the Widow says but it doesn’t sound the way his HYDRA handlers ordered him to be quiet. Bucky knows Steve isn’t in any kind of trouble. “We tried to wake you two up when we got to the room and Barnes tried to bite my head off when I tried to touch you.”

“We may have barged in the room when J.A.R.V.I.S. told us you were in the same bed,” Stark clarifies with an innocent shrug.

“We’ll knock next time,” Barton adds.

Natasha and Steve don’t seem amused.

“I don’t think I’ve ever done that,” Bucky comments quietly, inspecting his hand with excessive interest.

“Attacking people without even being conscious of it?” Stark questions but Bucky senses that everyone wants to ask the same thing.

“I do that every time they thaw me.” He makes a pause. Bucky feels uncomfortable with what he’s about to say so he stares down at his hand. “But I’ve never tried to protect someone—at least not voluntary.”

“Well.” Stark doesn’t say anything else and Bucky, even though he doesn’t really know the man that well, can tell that rendering him speechless is an unusual thing.

They fall into a tense silence. No one seems willing to take the first step.

“I guess you have questions,” Bucky decides to take the initiative, tense shoulders digging into the soft pillows. His shoulder burns and the arm he’s missing hurts.

“We do,” Steve affirms with an apologetic expression. He sits by Bucky’s left on a chair he must have brought from the dining room.

“We have to hear your side of the story,” the Widow says, taking a step forward.

“I don’t remember all of it,” he tells them with a weak voice. Bucky clears his throat and tries not to nod off. His head feels heavy and he knows the walls should not be swaying.

“What do they do to your memory?” Barton asks with a neutral tone.

Bucky swallows heavily, mouth tasting like ash. He grips the blankets.

“There…” He clears his throat and tries again but the words elude him. Steve hands him a glass of water and this time he drinks it without any need of help.

“The Chair,” Bucky finally gets the words out. He fidgets with the glass. “They use it after and before I’m put into my chamber.”

“Cryostasis?” Stark asks and Bucky answers with a nod. He feels Steve and Stark exchange a look over the bed.

“What does it do?” Barton prompts.

Bucky feels his throat close up but he pushes forward.

_Mission report._

Bucky shakes his head and takes a look at his surroundings without being too obvious about it. He’s in Avengers Tower. No handlers in sight. Steve’s hand twitches where it’s resting on the bedding.

“The Chair… It fixes the Asset,” he parrots.

“You’re the Asset.” The Widow makes sure she’s getting it right, expression and posture not giving anything away. Bucky assents. “What is the Asset _for_ exactly?”

“What do you mean, Romanov?” Stark snorts and Bucky is getting familiar with those. “Killing people, haven’t you noticed?”

Natasha doesn’t pay her teammate any attention, eyes set on Bucky. The weight of her stare pins him to the bed like a metallic strap and his chest feels heavy.

“The Asset helps HYDRA shape the century. The Asset’s work is essential for society not to descend into chaos.”

The words feel empty. They’ve been said to him so many times in so many different phrasings and Bucky had never known what they’d actually meant. He hadn’t known his name, the country where he was at the time—he hadn’t even known the people giving him orders. Every time, there had been a voice telling him to obey and thinking about not doing it had been painful. And a small part of his self, one impossible to fully burn out, had thought he was _helping_.

“So we’re talking about torture and brainwashing,” Stark declares. Everyone seems to agree with this but Bucky can’t wrap his head around it. Part of him, the one that lived as the Soldier and didn’t remember being Bucky, can’t accept that all he’s known is a lie. A lie he’s forgotten and then had shoved into his brain one time and another.

He was the Asset. He carried out his handler’s orders. He did a good job, the _best_. He was made with that purpose. What purpose does he have now, though?

Bucky looks at the windows and the buildings beyond it. He can faintly hear the people on the streets and it makes his skin crawl. At his left, Steve is observing him with kind eyes. These last days, Bucky’s been shown more kindness than in the last seven decades.

“That’s probably in the pen drive,” Stark comments, fingers entwined in his lap. He looks Bucky in the eye. “We found a pen drive in the cabin. It’s full of protocols about… Well. You.”

Bucky nods because he doesn’t know what’s expected of him now.

“For now no one can know you exist,” Stark explains to him. “But if a moment comes when you need to prove your existence and innocence, then you’ll need a lot of proof.”

“I killed those people,” Bucky states with a frown.

“You weren’t in control of your actions,” Steve contradicts. Bucky doesn’t feel like arguing any further and lets it go.

“So what am I going to do now?” Bucky asks, not sure he wants to know the answer.

“Recuperate,” Steve says without missing a beat or consulting his teammates.

“Tell us everything you know about HYDRA,” the Widow says. Steve snaps his head in her direction but seems to rethink and doesn’t say anything.

“She’s right,” Steve agrees. He looks at Bucky with an apologetic expression.

“They didn’t tell me a lot.” They didn’t tell him anything, actually, only gave him orders. They did talk around him without paying him any attention, though.

“You must have heard them say something useful,” Barton pushes.

Bucky squirms. He doesn’t have an answer and his body tenses up on its own accord.

“I don’t…”

“Would you recognize a HYDRA agent if you saw them?” Stark adds. He’s leaning forward, elbows pressing on his knees.

Bucky would honestly love to answer any if not all questions, but it feels like his words have vanished. He doesn’t remember anything useful and he knows these people are expecting an answer.

The Widow parts her lips, ready to fire another question, but Steve beats her to it. “Bucky, are you hungry?”

Bucky blinks at the change of topic. He nods.

“So you _are_ Sargent James Barnes of the 107th?”

Bucky senses that Stark is a person who likes the sound of his own voice and doesn’t like things staying a mystery.

“I am.”

_At least what is left of him._

“Let him rest, Tony,” Steve says before leaving the room.

The Widow studies him for a long minute. Bucky believes that any other person would feel intimidated but right now he only feels hot and sticky with sweat—his head hasn’t stopped pounding either but it’s turned bearable.

“We will have a team meeting in the next few days,” the Widow says when Steve reenters the room, shake in hand. She hesitates by the door. “I hope you have a quick recovery.”

“What a strange woman,” Stark comments when she’s already left.

Bucky accepts the shake he’s handed and takes a sip. He sighs when the creamy liquid soothes his throat and washes away the awful taste that had settled in his mouth.

“Steve told me you like the shakes.”

It sounds only a bit like a question even though Stark already knows the answer. Either way, Bucky nods his head. “I’ll need to do some tests to know what will be the best nutritional balance for your own shakes.”

Stark seems to be expecting an answer. “Will you let Tony do some tests on you?” is Steve who spells it out.

His stomach clenches. “What kind of… _tests_?”

He sees Stark open his mouth to answer but Steve is faster. “Nothing too invasive.”

“Will you let me answer? Are you the scientist here?”

“I only want him to know we won’t hurt him,” Steve explains. His face has turned pink.

Stark gapes at the other man, unable to find the right words.

“Can Steve be there?” Bucky surprises himself saying.

Stark’s gapping expression turns to him and Bucky notices that he’s not the only one taken by surprise.

“Of course,” Steve affirms, scooting closer to the bed. He turns his eyes on Stark. “Right?”

Stark splutters at first but eventually gives his confirmation. Bucky sips his shake and acts as if he isn’t aware of Barton and Stark staring at him.

“I’ll be going then,” Barton says, sliding off the dresser.

“Yeah, it does kinda seem like we’re not needed here,” Stark says on his part and Barton snorts. Bucky wonders if it’s one of those private jokes.

“I hope you get better soon, man.” Bucky needs a second too long to realize that the words are directed at him. He makes a weird wave with his hand still holding the shake and he instantly knows it wasn’t the appropriate thing to do.

“See ya,” Stark says and the two men exit the room. After a minute, he hears the elevator doors opening and closing again.

“How are you feeling?” Steve asks. He takes the shake and places it on the nightstand.

“I don’t know.” He had thought about just saying “fine” but then he’d realized he couldn’t really put his finger on the exact emotion he’s experiencing.

“Maybe you should lay down for a bit.”

Bucky nods at the suggestion because it doesn’t demand him to make a decision. He slides under the blankets and Steve takes the damp cloth and rewets it in the bathroom. It’s cold when it touches his forehead and Bucky sighs.

“Do you remember ever getting the flu with the serum?” Steve asks in a conversational tone, settling on the armchair Stark vacated.

“I can’t remember,” it’s Bucky’s poor excuse of an answer. He has the feeling he’s going to say that sentence a lot in the future. Luckily, Steve only nods to demonstrate he understands and Bucky’s stomach settles.

“You think you can sleep?”

That one is easier. “I don’t want to.”

Steve looks at him like he already knows the reason is that Bucky doesn’t want to dream again.

“You could read.”

Bucky almost sits up with interest but he settles on widening his eyes and parting his lips without any words getting out of them. Steve laughs at his reaction and gets up.

“Which one do you want?”

There’s a considerable distance between him and the bookshelf but Bucky can still read the titles, something Steve must already know. He spends a few minutes searching for a book he may know now that more memories have resurfaced, but nothing rings a bell.

_“The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy?”_

The sound Steve makes is non-committal. He brings the book to Bucky who proceeds to lay it on his lap and open it. He struggles for a minute and eventually succeeds to hold the book with his hand and keep the pages apart with his thumb.

“Mind if I stay here for a bit?” Steve asks. Bucky notices that Steve is pulling at a loose thread on his t-shirt.

“No. I mean, I don’t mind.”

Steve quirks his lips and then pulls out another book from the shelf and settles on the armchair. Bucky forgets himself for a moment and stares at Steve for far too long.

“Everything okay, pal?” Steve says with another quirk of his lips.

“Yeah. Pal.”

It feels good to be able to make someone laugh. (Is this a private joke?)

“If you need anything, just tell me,” Steve says and turns to his book when Bucky assents.

He won’t do it, but another thing that feels good is knowing he can just turn to his right and he’ll find a person who will listen to him and try to do something to make him feel more comfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been posting one chapter a week but I don’t think I’ll be able to keep it up for much longer. I have another 2 chapters already finished but I always need to do a lot of editing to feel like the story is meeting my expectations. I feel like this fic will reach 100k btw
> 
> That said, I hope you guys leave a review or comment!


	17. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Just want to thank you all for your comments and kudos! Now you can read!

The book stays with its pages unturned for almost half an hour. Steve tries really hard to concentrate on the black words on the white sheet but, every few minutes, his attention gets drawn to the man on his left. He’s reread the same paragraph a hundred times but he wouldn’t be able to tell what it says if his life depended on it. Steve is buzzing with questions and wonder and whatnot, but he keeps it locked.

Bucky is visibly trying to pay attention to his book too and failing just like Steve, though for a completely different reason.

“Bucky,” Steve calls out softly and Bucky still startles, eyes widening and shaking his head. “Bucky, maybe you should sleep, even if it’s only for an hour.”

“I don’t want to.” Everyone else would have sounded petulant saying those words but Bucky just sounds resigned.

“I understand.” Steve feels unstable, like someone who’s been walking with his eyes closed, and now that he’s opened them he’s finally aware of walking a rope, hundreds of feet above the ground. “I only say it because of what happened last time you spent days without sleep.”

Bucky looks at him almost mad. “Don’t.” He tries to get the words out but they seem to disagree with him. Bucky gives a deep exhale of annoyance and tries again. “Don’t be condescending. I’m not a kid.”

Steve doesn’t say that perhaps he’s angry because he needs to sleep; that would only prove Bucky’s accusation to be true. He doesn’t want to treat Bucky like a kid, it’s just that… maybe he has developed a protective streak when it comes to Bucky. It’s not something weird, Steve arguments, to be protective of a man who’s spent seventy years being abused. He’ll tone it down if it’s making him uncomfortable.

“Sorry,” he finally apologizes after staring at Bucky for far too long. Steve had already known Bucky’s situation was a special one and that his recovering wasn’t going to be like any other person’s… But now that seventy years of abuse have been added to the puzzle that was already James’ life…

With more conviction than ever, Steve knows that keeping James—Bucky away from S.H.I.E.L.D. is crucial for his recovery. It means keeping a secret from his current employers and having his teammates promise they won’t say anything either (Steve has faith in them more than ever and is sure they won’t betray his trust), but it will be worth it if it helps Bucky.

Cheeks heating up, Steve returns to the same paragraph when Bucky’s eyes break him from his absorptions. He finally reads it and goes to the next one. Bucky huffs at his left and Steve tries not to react, but then he huffs again and Steve has to turn and make sure everything’s okay.

“I know.” Steve waits. “I know you’re trying to help me. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Steve manages to say. He wonders, not for the first time, how Bucky can stand his presence. He’s the man who did everything in his power to hunt him down, like nothing but a rabid animal. Steve threatened him, shoved him against walls and spewed hate between his teeth.

Even now, when Steve recalls Sam’s swollen face and wheezing breath, he struggles to remember that the Winter Soldier is no more and that he was a man who also needed help.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Steve hears himself say, hands unclenching while he tries to appease the fire rising inside his chest.

Bucky seems to consider the offer and eventually answers with an affirmative noise. Steve asks J.A.R.V.I.S. to bring out the TV and he lets Bucky choose a movie. “I don’t know any.”

“Then pick a random title.”

Bucky ends choosing _Robin Hood: Men in Tights_ and they get comfortable in their seats, ready to watch.

“Have you already watched it?” Steve almost doesn’t hear the question. He turns to Bucky but he’s staring at the screen.

“No.”

_But it’s on my list,_ he wants to add.

They’re twenty minutes into the movie when Steve catches movement from the corner of his eye. Bucky is trying to get the blankets higher and it’s then that the washcloth on his forehead slides to the side. He notices Steve staring and averts his eyes. Steve hears him mumble an apology.

Steve gets to his feet and takes the washcloth. “Do you think you still have a fever?”

A nod. “I’ll go wet it again, then.”

The perfect reality would be to wait for Bucky to just say what he needs or wants but Steve knows that’s not an option right now. He can’t even imagine the hell he’s gone through but it’s easy to see that one of the consequences has been stripping Bucky of his autonomy. Probably one of the goals, to have your brainwashed soldier completely dependent on you.

(The truly perfect reality would have been Bucky not ending in HYDRA’s hands.)

Steve doesn’t mind having to ask him questions or permission. He also hopes that this way Bucky will start believing that his opinion and consent is important.

He puts the washcloth back over Bucky’s forehead, not before placing his hand and making sure the temperature has lowered. He’s pretty sure this is the case but he still asks for J.A.R.V.I.S.’ opinion.

“Mr. Barnes’ body temperature seems to be lowering,” the A.I. confirms.

Bucky looks miserable. He’s sweating and seems to be having chills and Steve… he just wants to help somehow. He picks his phone from the night stand by the armchair and opens Google. He makes a quick research.

“Do you feel like taking another bath?”

Bucky looks at him through tired eyes, lips parted like just breathing is taking a toll. He trembles one more time before regaining control of his muscles. Bucky nods and Steve helps him out of bed. With Bucky’s arm over his shoulders and his own around the man’s waist, Steve gets him to the bathroom.

“I’m sweating,” Bucky says and Steve has the impression that he wasn’t meaning to say it out loud. He doesn’t comment on it.

“I’m going to help you undress, all right?”

Bucky’s eyes flutter open and he stares at Steve through dark lashes. He sways forward and Steve puts a palm on the center of his chest. Bucky gives a nod.

“Okay, let’s get you out of this.”

Bucky raises his arm and Steve takes off both the t-shirt and sweater at the same time, paying careful attention to the bandaged stump. Bucky’s eyes have closed and Steve has to grab him by the waist so he won’t face-plant against Steve.

“You have to help too, you know?” he says with deliberate nonchalance. He remembers the friendly atmosphere the two of them had built just last night, and Steve yearns for it.

Bucky mumbles another apology and pulls away, back straightening and hand going to the waist band of his pants. Steve kicks himself for not thinking before speaking. He doesn’t tell Bucky that wasn’t a reprimand and instead helps him get out of the rest of the clothes. When he’s naked, Steve lets the tub fill up with water.

“Steve.” He turns and sees Bucky’s unsure expression. Bucky averts his eyes quickly. “Can I get in?”

“Just wait a minute until it fills up.” Steve gets his hand under the tap, making sure it’s not too hot for Bucky’s body.

Bucky nods and Steve goes searching in the cabinets. He’s spent a minute rummaging around when he hears a loud thud. He spins around to find Bucky lying flat on his back, eyes closed and face slack. Steve freezes in place for a few heartbeats, finally spurting into action when he hears a sound come from Bucky.

“Bucky!” He kneels by his side and takes the man’s face between his hands. “Bucky, open your eyes.”

Steve waits, heart hammering in his chest, hearing his blood pump in his ears. His thumbs rub at Bucky’s cheeks and Steve repeats his name, expecting a different outcome. He probes at the back of Bucky’s head, making sure there is no wound. It must be only a minute but time stretches into what feels like an hour, giving Steve the opportunity to come up with a hundred different theories about what just happened to Bucky.

Bucky recovers consciousness in an unpleasant manner, body spasming and then jerking back when he opens his eyes and sees Steve looming over him. He bangs his bandaged shoulder against the tiles and he strangles a scream in his throat. Steve sees him grit his teeth and his jaw clench, waiting for the pain to pass.

“What happened?” Steve asks, breathless.

Bucky doesn’t answer and his face doesn’t give anything away.

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?” Steve’s sure his tone doesn’t sound accusatory, he makes sure of it, but perhaps he’s wrong because Bucky’s face turns into something betrayed.

Bucky keeps silent and eventually Steve doesn’t know what else to do but help him to his feet. The bathtub isn’t yet full but Steve eases Bucky into it. He trembles once and then his muscles turn to stone, making Steve realize in that moment how unguarded Bucky has been acting in his presence until now.

The next twenty minutes pass in silence, Steve helping Bucky with his bath while the other man ignores him—or at least acts like it. After Bucky has washed his limbs, Steve washes his shoulder and then changes the dressing with the same care as the first time, if not more. He’s aware of the looks Bucky sneaks at but he doesn’t mention them.

When Steve is washing his back, Bucky speaks.

“You told me to wait.”

“What?” Steve is engrossed with the scars on the left side of Bucky’s back, delicately washing them with the sponge.

“I should have said I wasn’t feeling well,” Bucky rumbles, mouth pressed against his knee muffling the words.

Steve needs a minute but he eventually pieces it together. “You wanted to get in the tub because you weren’t feeling okay.”

He presses his forehead to Bucky’s large back, muscles unyielding. He feels like an idiot and a bastard all in one package. They don’t talk and Steve helps him get out the tub and into a bathrobe. He stands before Bucky, hands gripping his shoulders, and Steve has to control himself so he won’t try and wrap himself around Bucky. He barely achieves it but then he looks at Bucky’s downcast face and he has to force himself to pull away or he will do something embarrassing.

They enter the bedroom and go through the motions of getting Bucky dressed, this time sans sweater. Bucky sits on the bed and Steve considers him for a moment. Steve touches his forehead and asks Bucky if he’s feeling better—he shrugs.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Steve starts saying. His hand slips down Bucky’s arm and he crouches in front of him so he will be able to catch the man’s eyes. “Yeah, maybe you should have told me you weren’t feeling okay, but it doesn’t mean you did something wrong.”

Bucky doesn’t show any hints that he agrees with Steve’s words and Steve’s mind flails for something else.

“I’m here to help you, Buck,” Steve states directly and feels relief when Bucky’s head lifts and their eyes meet. “That means that the moment you feel uncomfortable or threatened by something I’ve done or said, that’s on me.”

Bucky doesn’t seem convinced but Steve wasn’t expecting it to be smooth sailing.

“Bucky,” Steve says, tone urging. His hands are at each side of Bucky, braced on the mattress. “If at any moment you feel threatened by me—by _anyone_—you can tell J.A.R.V.I.S. and he will make sure you’re in a safe place, away from the threat… or the threat away from you.”

“He can do that?” Bucky questions, eyebrows low, a clear sign of skepticism.

“Indeed, Mr. Barnes,” J.A.R.V.I.S. answers and Steve could kiss him if the A.I. had a real body. Steve observes Bucky closely, looking for a crack in the wall he’s build between the two of them. “If you ask me to, I can lock doors and bar windows. If needed, I can release a sleeping gas to neutralize a threat.”

“He will do that when I ask him?” Bucky asks again and Steve catches urgency I his voice. It clicks then, that Bucky doesn’t have anything to defend himself with. He’s missing an arm and, yes, Bucky himself is a weapon, but still. It must be a relief to know there is something tangible (or almost) that can be of help when you feel in danger.

“He will,” Steve assures, trying to convey his sincerity with his eyes and body if his words aren’t enough.

Bucky inspects the room from where he’s sitting and eventually gives a solemn nod of his head, wet strands of hair following the movement and catching on his stubble which is a day away from being a beard.

“Do you want me to get under the blanket with you?” Steve forces himself to ask once he gets to his feet.

Bucky is already sitting under the blanket and Steve cannot believe how small he appears right now. He’s staring at his bare feet, still on the floor.

“Yes.”

Steve gets back to Bucky’s side and tries not to feel despicable for enjoying so much the other man’s companionship. He may be quiet, Steve ponders while he lies on the bed, but there is something about him that makes it impossible to ignore his presence—it’s like Steve can hear a buzzing in the air not letting him forget who is with him.

Steve likes Bucky’s observant personality—he knows most of it is actually the man being vigilant but Steve sees in Bucky someone trying to make sense of the place he’s in, the people, the set of affairs. He doesn’t want to compare their situations but it does remind Steve of himself after getting out of the ice and being shoved into a completely different world.

Bucky rolls into his arms and Steve feels a sigh against his neck. His stomach does a weird thing, like when he dreams of falling.

“Just kick me if you get too hot,” Steve tells him.

“Okay,” is Bucky’s answer and Steve is glad to hear that some of the tension has left his tone, the same way it seems to be leaving his body.

“I just need an hour,” Bucky mumbles.

Steve’s opinion is that Bucky deserves an entire week spent under warm blankets.

“You sleep, I’ll take watch.”

Steve’s lips find their way to Bucky’s forehead, still uncharacteristically hot. As if a button has been pressed, Bucky relaxes.

“Okay.” Bucky yawns. “Pal.”

Steve snorts at the stupid word that has somehow turned into something more. One arm going around Bucky’s back and the other to the back of his head, Steve closes his eyes but doesn’t sleep. He listens to Bucky’s heartbeat and waits for it to settle into a slow and calm rhythm, something that doesn’t resemble feet pounding against the ground, running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still haven’t finished chapter 18! Not because I haven’t tried but because it turned longer than expected.


	18. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back!

He’s home. He’s in the kitchen. His mom is cooking and he knows his dad is at work. His mom is crying but he’s too little and he doesn’t understand why. At least he knows that giving her a hug always makes her smile. He gets down from his chair with that thought in mind but the moment his feet touch the floor he’s taller and bent over a book with his sister. Becca has tears rolling down her cheeks but he knows that what she’s feeling isn’t sadness but frustration. He tells his dad to explain the math problem to Becca; maybe she’ll finally understand it. George explains to Becca why their car is doing that awful noise while the two siblings pay close attention, sun high on the sky and moon bright when he kisses Dot goodnight in front of her door. He promises to see her soon and turns when a bullet shoots too close. The sound is deafening, so much that for a second he isn’t sure he possesses another sense apart from his hearing. He screams Dum Dum’s name and the next second he’s reciting his own name and rank, one time and another and another and…

He hears a man’s voice in the distance but he can’t make out the words.

He’s lying on his back on the grass, Becca on his left. She’s sleeping and drooling and he wishes he could film it and show it to her later. Becca wakes up and asks where his arm is but he can’t answer because the wind is howling at the docks and he hasn’t finished his shift—he shouldn’t get distracted but Dot came to visit. He can sneak out for ten minutes. She cleans the lipstick off his lips with a thumb but he still tastes copper on his tongue. Dot is saying something but the bombs are too loud. He asks her where are Dum Dum and the others. She laughs and says that he better call her this time.

His head is pounding and he hears the male voice again. It seems to come from a different room—if he could only get up from the table but the straps are too tight. The man repeats the same thing once again but he _can’t_ make out the words. If they would only stop shooting for a goddamn second!

_Bucky._

His arm is missing. This isn’t home. He’s certain that no one else is left but him. And maybe not even him; he shed that skin decades ago and he’s doing it once again and no one can know what the outcome will be.

Bucky sits and reads. He isn’t holding the book but the person who he’s leaning against is. He can’t make out the words on the page but it doesn’t really matter because he isn’t in a hurry.

Bucky’s eyes flutter open and he immediately knows that more than one hour has passed since he fell asleep. He considers kicking Steve for it but the annoyance leaves space to something different—not that Bucky knows what it is, though.

He thinks this is the first time he sees Steve’s face devoid of any worry or apprehension. Bucky wonders if the serum keeps his skin from staying creased with the lines of concern he’s constantly bearing. Also, Bucky takes a moment to assimilate the fact that he’s slept the day and part of the night away.

He stares a minute longer at Steve’s face in the dark but there’s an itch under his skin and he doesn’t feel like lying down. He doesn’t want to wake Steve and he wants to spend some hours on his own so he’s careful when untangling their legs and getting out of bed. It feels chilly not having Steve wrapped around him and for a second he considers crawling back under the covers.

Steve turns on his back, a line forming between his brows and Bucky pauses until it smooths. Steve mumbles something under his breath when Bucky returns to the room after using the bathroom and something else comes out of the man’s lips when Bucky heads out again, turning back to his side.

Soundlessly, Bucky walks the length of the apartment without entering Steve’s bedroom, the space feeling off-limits. He goes to the kitchen and inspects cabinets and drawers without having a goal in mind—without his goal being to make sure there aren’t any microphones and additional cameras to the ones needed for the A.I. He looks at the utensils without thinking which ones can be used as a weapon and how. He inspects the cleaning products without thinking of ways to mix them to create explosives or which ones he can use to poison the food in the refrigerator.

Well, he _tries_ really hard not to think about these things.

Next, he goes to the bookshelves and reads every one of the titles, sometimes taking a book out from its slot and reading the synopsis on the back. He makes a mental list of the ones he would like to read and the ones he should read if he wants to catch up on history. (Bucky feels queasy at the notion of so many books of lost history, of years he’s spent in cryostasis—_unused and purposeless._ And the time he’s spent fulfilling orders, always in a limbo where time didn’t exist for him.)

He ignores the television because he doesn’t know how to operate it and because he doesn’t want Steve to wake up. (Bucky feels queasy just thinking how many things he can find about the future—_the present_ through the television alone.)

He ends in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows and looks down at the street. He tips to the side and has to lean on the glass when sudden vertigo overtakes him. He slides to the floor and cross-legged Bucky rests his warm forehead against the cold glass. The dizziness starts fading when the first rays of sunlight are emerging on the horizon. Bucky looks at the dots on the streets, New York alive even so early. At least that hasn’t changed.

He doesn’t wonder about people’s lives or where they’re going. If that little girl crying is going to school or if her father works as a lawyer. He doesn’t think of different ways to eliminate the man in the suit that’s just turning a corner or the old lady that’s taking too long to cross the street. He does wonder if the woman buying her second hot dog from the street vendor is HYDRA—or the vendor herself.

The woman disappears after a while and Bucky proceeds to survey a different person that could be a HYDRA agent. The sun has risen already and Bucky’s eyes feel dry but he can’t stop watching the people close to the Tower.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.” Bucky would like to know if his voice has always sounded so grating, like sand grinding on a rock.

“Yes, Mr. Barnes?” the A.I. answers immediately in a low volume.

“How secure are your systems?”

His hand clenches into a fist when a man in a baseball cap and sunglasses comes into view, striding in the Tower’s direction.

“The Tower’s security-system has been created by Mr. Stark himself with the help of Coronel Rhodes and a team hand-picked by them.”

Bucky wants to ask who is this Coronel Rhodes and the names of every person involved in creating the security-systems. Then he remembers that Tony Stark has made the Artificial Intelligence he’s talking to and the robot that brought him clothes some days ago, and he feels a bit less on edge.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Bucky says tentatively, “if I ask you something will you answer?”

“That depends on the question.” He was already expecting a similar answer.

“Who is Tony Stark?”

The name has been nagging at the back of his mind, like a pebble inside a shoe.

“Well, that question has different answers and it also depends on who you’re asking. I could say that Tony Stark is my inventor but I’m sure it won’t be good enough of an answer for you.”

“And you’d be right.”

He shifts until his stump and temple are resting against the cold glass.

“You could google it, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. suggests. Bucky feels like he should know what that means—maybe he’s been debriefed on “googling” for a mission but later on the information has been erased from his memory.

Instead of just answering, a hologram shines over the dining room’s table and Bucky gets to his feet to inspect it. It’s a keyboard with a hologram with the word “Google” over it spelled in different colors. There’s also a rectangle under the word with what seems to be the symbol of a magnifying glass on one side and the symbol of a microphone on the other.

He types “Tony Stark” and presses _enter_ as instructed by J.A.R.V.I.S. to _search for results._ The hologram changes to what seem to be “about 136,700,000 results (0,79 seconds)” and Bucky stares at the image feeling out of his depth.

“I advise you choose the first result, sir.”

He nods wordlessly and taps on “Tony Stark - Wikipedia” and proceeds to start reading about Anthony Edward Stark. He tries for it not to feel like being debriefed on a new mission. It quickly stops feeling like it when the dossier includes the man’s romantic history, something that isn’t usually included when he learns information about his missions. He can’t help but raise both eyebrows at how extensive that particular section is.

Bucky shouldn’t be surprised when he finally finds what has been nagging at him. It feels like his fever breaks in just a fraction of a second, blood freezing in his veins.

Instinctively, Bucky touches the blue words that spell Howard Stark and he’s redirected to a different dossier. He reads it from beginning to end and almost asks J.A.R.V.I.S. how he can change the information since some details are wrong.

“Mr. Barnes, are you feeling all right?” J.A.R.V.I.S. asks so politely.

Bucky doesn’t know what to answer so he only nods and gets up from the chair. The sun is bathing the large room but nothing seems to be warming up.

“I don’t suppose I can exit the building.”

“I’m afraid not, sir. Mr. Stark told me not to let you out without notifying him or Captain Rogers.”

Bucky’s head snaps up. “I can go out?”

“If Mr. Stark and the Captain approve of it and you’re accompanied, I believe you can, sir.”

This too feels like being treated like a child or a captive but it’s still better than what he’d been expecting.

He _does_ feel like a captive, though, because he still feels like the Winter Soldier and Bucky is just realizing how difficult it will be to change that.

“Thank you, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” he says, still in a state of amazement. He blinks at the empty room and gets to his feet.

Bucky returns to his bedroom and takes the book Steve had given to him—the windows let a moderate amount of light to enter the bedroom. He sits on the armchair and shifts his attention between the book in his lap and Steve’s face twitching when sunlight hits it. He knows the book is just a diversion from the elephant in the room, the one that spans more than half a century. He indulges in the distraction that prevents his mind from spiraling.

He’s on chapter 3 when Steve finally rolls to his side, back to the windows, and almost on chapter 4 when he starts contemplating the decision of sitting on the bed, near Steve. The sunlight is nice and all but it’s no Steve Rogers.

Bucky has reached chapter 4 of _The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ when he finally puts together enough nerve to get up from the armchair and hover unsurely near the bed. He observes Steve, body shifting slightly with every breath. Bucky steps to the side, letting the light spill over the blonde man. He doesn’t realize he’s fallen into a daze until he hears the elevator chime and the doors open. His body goes still out of pure instinct and his hand shoots to his thigh, searching for a knife that isn’t there. Bucky shakes his head and looks at his surroundings, afraid of losing time again and doing something he’ll regret.

_No more missions, no more targets, no more victims,_ Bucky reminds himself and he’s starting to believe it’s more than a fantasy.

The door clicks closed when he exits the room and he walks the length of the hallway.

“Eh, hey man. You look better already,” Barton says from the kitchen. He shuts the fridge closed and leaves the condiments on the counter. “You don’t mind, right?”

Bucky shrugs; it’s not his apartment and he has the feeling Steve wouldn’t tell Barton off for eating his food. He watches the other man while he eats, not sure what to do; if to leave Barton alone and go back to the bedroom or keep staring at him and… make him uncomfortable even further.

“Is Steve here?”

He’s now hovering in the kitchen. “Yeah.”

“He’s showered already?” A tomato falls off his sandwich and Barton picks it up from the floor and returns it to his ensemble.

“No.” His shakes are on the countertop where Barton is sitting and Bucky’s stomach is starting to growl.

“Has he at least finished his morning run?” Bucky watches the slice of tomato that’s about to fall again—the same one from before.

“No.” Barton lifts his head like a dog who hears a Galton’s whistle. “He hasn’t gone for a run.”

“Then what is he doing?”

“Sleeping.” He must sound and look like a caveman. Bucky tucks his hair behind his ears, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. He remembers his self from before, the young man that liked to look sharp.

Barton looks at his bare wrist and then around the apartment but he doesn’t seem to find whatever he’s looking for.

“J, what time is it?”

“It’s eight-thirty, Mr. Barton,” the A.I. dutifully answers.

“I still don’t like it when you call me that,” the man comments, going back to his breakfast. “But I haven’t come up with any alternatives. What do you think, Barnes?”

His face seems to convey his confusion pretty well because Barton clarifies. “You have any ideas what J.A.R.V.I.S. could call me instead of Mr. Barton?”

Bucky makes a mental note to _google_ Clint Barton when he’s alone.

It’s odd how different it feels being alone now in comparison to when he’s on a mission. It must be the fact that there isn’t a deadline on the horizon, a mark to eliminate, a weapon to carry, cameras to look out for. He takes a moment to appreciate the feeling of his body healing with no restrictions, at how he’s covered in soft fabrics in contrast to the Kevlar and coarse material of his uniform. He feels clean.

Barton snaps his fingers and calls his name and Bucky comes back to the present. He remembers Barton’s question but he doesn’t find an answer. “Maybe… just Clint.”

“Stark doesn’t like it when I get too familiar with his butler.” He assumes he’s referring to the Artificial Intelligence.

Barton doesn’t continue with the conversation, instead he gets his phone out and starts typing. Bucky swallows and gives a step forward, the kitchen island between them. “What’s your codename?”

Barton has the appearance of someone who just witnessed his coffee-maker say its first word.

“I’m Hawkeye,” he answers after finding his bearings.

Bucky makes an expression that he hopes conveys the sentiment of “well, there you have it.”

“Oh. _Oh._” Barton beams and sits on the countertop. “J.A.R.V.I.S., from now on you can call me Mr. Hawkeye.”

It wasn’t exactly what he was going for but it doesn’t really matter.

“As you wish, Mr. Hawkeye.”

Barton turns his proud grin to Bucky and Bucky’s first and only reaction is to give an awkward thumb-up. Perhaps his face should change expressions too but he doesn’t know which would be appropriate for the occasion. Barton is easy to read but he doesn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve the way Steve does.

“So you say Steve is still sleeping?” Barton returns to the topic. He’s sipping coffee from a cup that Bucky’s unaware of where he got and when.

Bucky nods.

“Good for him.” He takes a sip. “I don’t know him that well but… Okay, let’s address the elephant in the room: we spent a month hunting you down,” he changes topics, gesticulating with his free hand in addition to the one that’s holding the coffee cup. “We obviously didn’t know the real story behind your implication with HYDRA.”

Bucky is ready to tell him that he understands but Barton doesn’t give him a chance to get a word in edgewise. Perhaps add that if they hadn’t found him, he’d still be with HYDRA, bare of his memories and unsuspecting of what is really going on. The moment HYDRA noticed he’d started suspecting something was wrong, he would have been wiped.

“What I wanted to say,” he tells Bucky in a lower voice now, “is that Steve is a bit of a workaholic—at least that’s how it looked like the last month we spent searching for you. Workaholic and a bit _too_ rigorous when it comes to missions and training.”

Just going by Steve’s recurrent frown, Bucky can believe Barton’s words. He has his memories of the times he’s fought the Captain and in retrospect, he can affirm that Steve is an impressive and methodical fighter.

“So it’s a good thing that he’s sleeping more hours than the ones he spends training or on missions,” Barton continues.

Bucky thinks it makes sense. Steve had emphasized how Bucky should sleep more hours, never mind that his enhancements permit him to spend days awake.

“Sorry for coming uninvited and with no warning, man, just wanted to ask Steve if he wanted to come to the shooting range.”

Barton finishes his sandwich, rinses the plate he hadn’t actually used, and leaves it in its respective cabinet. “I’ll be out of your hair.”

Barton doesn’t wait for Bucky to do something more than wave and heads to the elevator. Bucky nears the protein shakes.

“Oh, almost forgot.” He turns to face Barton. “Could you please tell Rogers that Natasha—you know, the redhead—and I’ll be on a S.H.I.E.L.D. mission for the next few days? The details are confidential.”

“I’ll tell him.”

Barton leaves in the elevator but Bucky lets a few minutes pass before making himself a shake. He listens intently after finishing, waiting to hear Steve waking up on account of all the noise. Nothing happens so he hurries to drink it up. After putting everything into its place, he returns to the bedroom.

Bucky doesn’t understand why he feels exhausted, like he’s returned from a mission that took days to be completed. He doesn’t overthink it and gets under the blankets. Steve hasn’t moved from his position, one hand under the pillow and the other resting in front of his face. Bucky presses to the warm back and waits for his hand to warm up too before he slithers it under Steve’s t-shirt. The man grumbles but doesn’t awake or move away—quite the contrary and suddenly Bucky is the one wrapped around Steve, their bodies perfectly aligned, icy nose buried in fair hair.

He’s drifting off when he feels a hand wrap around his own and this time he sleeps without dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh...I really love writing dream sequences
> 
> Ch 18 STILL isn’t finished. I think it’s bc I’ve been thinking “I already have one ch finished, there’s no hurry for another one.” Maybe your comments will make me finish ch 18 faster *moon emoji*
> 
> No but really, it’s _almost_ finished.


	19. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like this chapter even though the end took an unexpected turn.

There are still days when Steve needs a moment to adjust to his new body. He has to feel his lungs expand without any wheezing, his back not hurt from spending a long period of time in the same position, and he has to make sure he hears clearly now that he isn’t partially deaf. This is one of those mornings when he feels grateful for what Dr. Erskine did for him, for whatever worth he saw in him. One of those mornings he feels completely undeserving.

Steve shifts on the mattress and an odd thing happens but he doesn’t register it until it happens again. His face nuzzles in the pillow and his legs shift and it’s then that his body finally sends a message to his brain: he feels the arm around him, the leg between his own, the chest pressed to his back, the breath ruffling the hair at the back of his head. Steve hears the deep breathing and a part of his brain tells him not to worry, that he’s in no danger.

He can’t know the time it is but his internal clock tells him it’s pretty late. Steve doesn’t feel like getting out of bed, doesn’t feel like taking a shower and shaving, doesn’t feel like eating. Any other day—one where he were to wake up alone in bed, in his own bedroom that is washed by the sun over the course of the day—and Steve would have forced himself to face the day, but—

Bucky grumbles something that sounds unhappy and Steve’s hand grabs the man’s forearm which then tightens its hold on Steve. Bucky moans something about not finding his nose and _could you please give it back, I need it._

This also seems to be one of those days when everything reminds him of his mother. She had also talked in her sleep. Steve would hold conversations with her, ones that could last for an impressive stretch of time. Part of him wants to try the same thing with Bucky, find out if he will answer if Steve talks to him. Another one, more vehement, strongly rejects the notion. He tries to reason with himself that it’s not like he will replace one set of memories with another—but in days like these, it’s no use.

On days like this, the past feels like a physical presence that won’t let him move.

Steve closes his eyes and reminisces about his mom and he can almost feel her fingers in his hair. He remembers Sarah holding him close in nights they weren’t sure he was going to make it to see another day.

He holds his breath and waits for the impulse to shake Bucky off to pass.

As if sensing a change in the atmosphere, Bucky’s arm slides to Steve’s chest, t-shirt riding up, and he presses impossibly closer.

“Don’t eat the ladybug,” Bucky murmurs against Steve’s neck and just like that his bad mood is gone.

Steve snorts. “I’ve heard bugs are all protein,” he comments off-handedly.

“No, that’s my ladybug,” Bucky whines and Steve almost doesn’t recognize his voice, turned juvenile and devoid of its usual hesitance.

Not for the first time, Steve tries to imagine a Bucky before HYDRA. Now, though, he disposes of additional information—or at least he’s aware of the existence of said information. The Howlies had always highlighted the man’s bravery and talked about his humor. Dum Dum, the only one who had known him before all of the Howling Commandoes got taken by HYDRA in Austria, had said that _Sarge_ was always able to cheer up his fellow soldiers and convince anyone to go for a drink to the closest place that could sell them some alcohol. During missions, he had also commented on more than one occasion how useful would be Sarge’s great skills as a marksman. It seems HYDRA took notice of his skillset as well.

“Do you want to eat the ladybug?” Steve asks in a hushed tone, not wanting to wake him up.

Bucky makes a distressed sound and Steve’s body shakes trying not to laugh out loud.

“What do you want to eat, then?” he carries on with the absurd conversation—it has a soothing effect on his anxiety. Steve’s eyes close and his hand wraps around the one on his chest, thumb rubbing the soft skin.

Bucky doesn’t answer right away and after a minute Steve assumes there won’t be more talking.

“Chocolate,” the word is mumbled against the back of Steve’s neck and he shivers. “Chocolate cake.”

Steve makes a mental note to ask Tony if there’s a way to make a nutritional shake with chocolate cake flavor.

This reminds him that Bucky has to go to Tony’s lab so the engineer can make Bucky’s custom-made nutritional drink. He will talk with Bucky and ask when he wants to go.

_There’s a lot we have to talk about._

“I want my dark uniform,” Bucky grumbles and Steve isn’t sure if he’s missed part of the man’s monologue or he just jumped to a different one.

“What else do you want?” Steve prompts. He moves along with Bucky’s chest when he takes a deep breath and then exhales in Steve’s hair.

“I want.” Bucky pauses and mumbles words Steve can’t make out, he wonders if in a different language. “Warm.”

Steve is confused by the answer. “You want… warm?”

Bucky lets out a short snore.

“You… Warm.” Steve waits for something else, maybe something that will make Bucky’s words make sense. Steve looks over his shoulder and concludes that it must have been gibberish of a dreaming person. Either way, he hopes Bucky has “warm.”

_Or maybe he just wants to_ be _warm._

He spends some time drifting in and out of sleep, too aware of the chest against his back and the palm on his own chest. A moment comes when he can’t ignore the need to use the toilet and Steve turns on his back, gently lifting Bucky’s arm from his waist and lowers it to the mattress. After telling himself that it would be creepy—maybe even invasive— to sketch Bucky while he’s sleeping, Steve finally makes use of the bathroom and quickly returns to the edge of the bed.

What he wants to do is crawl under the blankets and keep them warm for Bucky. He wants to ask J.A.R.V.I.S. to dim the windows until they’re completely black so he can stay in a state between sleep and wakefulness while he holds the other man.

(or is held)

He wants to ask Bucky about where he was born and where he grew up, if he knew about the Captain America films and shows, and if he watched _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs_ at the movies. He wants to know how he’s liking the book he’s reading even though Steve found it too confusing at times.

This is the reason why he goes to the kitchen and prepares himself a breakfast he doesn’t taste.

He sits on a stool at the kitchen island, empty plate before him now and eyes vacant in the direction of the windows. Suddenly the apartment feels emptier than usual, the silence a presence he can’t ignore. The autumn sun spills over the counters and floors, the bare walls and unused furniture, and Steve sees it all like he’s color blind again.

Steve shakes his head when Peggy’s voice resonates in his mind calling him dramatic. He feels miserable for feeling so miserable while living in a palace. He will never again go hungry to bed or sick or wondering if he and his mom will have to move to a new apartment next week.

_It’s not like you’ve spent seventy years being tortured and used_, a spiteful voice reminds him. Steve’s head turns in the bedroom’s direction, as if the serum has graced him with the power to see through solid matter, too.

Steve looks back at his empty plate, at his clenched fists, and takes his phone out of his jeans. He searches, and he reads, and he does some more research that leads him into a completely different direction, and suddenly more than an hour has passed and Steve has exchanged bar stool for couch cushion. He’s bookmarked almost a dozen web pages when he hears muffled steps coming from behind the couch. He turns around and does a double take when he sees Bucky’s bed-head. He cracks a grin and outright laughs when Bucky rubs at his eye and Steve’s attention is drawn to the pillow imprint on his stubbled cheek. It’s an outright beard by now, actually, and Steve ignores it when his hands itch for a pencil, a paintbrush, a chisel and a block of marble—anything.

“Good morning,” Steve says.

“Clint Barton and Natasha Romanov are on a S.H.I.E.L.D. mission. The details are confidential.” The discipline in the tone and the rumpled look don’t match and Steve feels like someone just hit him over the head. It’s a weird first thing to say in the morning (afternoon.)

“Okay,” Steve answers, unsure of what else to say.

Bucky’s hand rubs at his scruff and his eyes avert. His hand finds its way to the pocket of his sweatshirt. “Barton told me to inform you.”

“Thanks,” Steve blurts and Bucky grunts something he doesn’t try to make out. “You hungry?”

Steve waits for the customary nod and after a few seconds, he gets it. Bucky doesn’t approach the kitchen and Steve realizes after way too long that Bucky is probably waiting to be dismissed. His throat works and his chest feels cold.

“Bon Appetite,” the stilted and unnatural words come out of his mouth before he can think. Bucky frowns at him but gets the point. Steve’s eyes follow Bucky until he’s in the kitchen and then turns the TV on. He turns it off when he realizes he doesn’t want to watch anything.

“How you feel about going to Tony’s lab?” he asks, the kitchen island between them. Steve’s skin itches and he circles it.

Bucky doesn’t answer right away, eyes on his shake. He knows Bucky’s thinking his answers over even if it seems like he’s ignoring Steve.

“Why exactly?” Bucky eventually asks, eying Steve sideways.

“There are some things we should discuss.” Bucky turns his head to look him in the eye, face questioning. “About your stay here, for example.” Bucky’s body tenses but Steve isn’t taken by surprise anymore. “He wants to make some tests and—”

“I’m staying here,” Bucky interrupts. “Right?”

The question takes him by surprise this time but he recovers quickly. “Of course.”

“With you?” Bucky asks with a frown and eyes fixed on Steve’s.

Steve opens his mouth to answer but he’s too stunned to talk at first. Bucky’s face of determination transforms into realization. Steve is convinced Bucky has reached the wrong conclusion and he hurries to say, “Yes, of course, Buck. If you want to stay with me, that’s okay with me.”

Steve looks closely for a reaction but Bucky seems to school his expression into something neutral. “When are we going?” Bucky fidgets.

“After your shake. If you want.” Steve doesn’t want to make Bucky feel suffocated with so many questions but he also doesn’t want to be overbearing. He would have hated it.

Bucky doesn’t answer. He looks at Steve, as if searching for something, and then downs his shake. He gives Steve one look that he understands better than if Bucky had used words, and the two of them make their way to the elevator.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., is Tony in his workshop?” Steve asks when the elevator doors close.

“He is, Captain Rogers, and I’ve already taken the liberty of notifying him of your arrival.”

Steve twitches.

“He reports our conversations?” Bucky looks at Steve, eyes wide and lips parted. He looks affronted and Steve feels embarrassed for knowing so well that this is the first time Bucky’s shown such an emotion.

“I do not, Mr. Barnes,” J.A.R.V.I.S. answers before Steve can make himself talk. “Every conversation that takes place in this Tower is private unless it puts someone in danger.”

“Or we’re already going to ask you to do something,” Steve finishes with a half-smile. He’s learned a thing or two in the last month he’s spent here.

“Indeed, Captain.”

Bucky still looks like someone pissed on his bed and Steve gently bumps their shoulders, giving Bucky a smile when the man looks up at him. His stomach doesn’t flip when Bucky gives a half-smile of his own.

Steve realizes then that Bucky is only wearing socks but he doesn’t say anything when he sees that Bucky doesn’t seem to mind.

The elevator doors slide open and they can hear the music even before they’ve reached the workshop. The volume is lowered the moment they enter and Tony turns on his stool to face them.

“Why does your shirt have a circle that lets us see your chest?” Steve asks before he can think twice. It dawns on him a second before Tony can answer.

The engineer snorts and gets to his feet, arms thrown wide as if showing off his t-shirt. “Oh, you must have already forgotten the arc reactor embedded in my chest,” Tony says cheerfully.

Steve and Bucky reach the workbench where it seems he’s been for the last hours. One of Tony’s hands goes to the circular window of his t-shirt while the other stays in the air. Steve gives a short laugh and gives him a quick side hug. Tony’s expression changes to one of surprise but he recuperates quickly. “You know, that thing that replaced my sternum and—”

“Yes, Tony, ha ha. I remember now.” He’s not actually annoyed, not like he would have been if this had happened a month or two ago.

“Are you sure? I understand that after a certain age—”

“You aren’t that funny, Tony. Let it go, I’m younger than you.” Still, he says it with lips twitching.

“Yes, you are,” Tony concedes with a voice suddenly devoid of its cheeriness. He observes Steve for a few seconds, as if for the first time. A second later it’s like Steve has imagined it and Tony’s clapping his hands and taking a step in Bucky’s direction. “Hi there, Barnes.”

Tony’s palm rises in the air but before he can clap it on Bucky’s shoulder, Bucky takes a step away from him, bumping into Steve’s side. He doesn’t seem distressed, only uncomfortable, and Steve can only assume it was done out of instinct. Steve’s insides feel funny when Bucky doesn’t flinch away from the arm he slides around the man’s shoulders.

“Sorry,” Bucky says with a tone that doesn’t give anything away.

“Don’t worry,” Tony answers and Steve can almost feel the man’s brain working, his mien changing.

In the last month, Steve has seen Tony around children, fans, employees, rival businessmen and businesswomen… The thing is, Steve has seen Tony behaving in ways he would’ve never imagined. There was always the chatty Tony, the one that has the need to have the first and last word, but Steve discovered that there was more to it.

So, Steve knows Tony is about to change his behavior to one that won’t force Bucky to recoil from him again.

“You know why you’re here, right?” Tony asks. He guides the two men to an office chair and a cleaner workbench. “Would you please sit here?”

Steve looks at Bucky and sees him swallow, eyes trained on the chair before them. Steve looks at it too, trying to understand what Bucky must be seeing, what is making him hesitate. Then he realizes: a laboratory full of machines, a chair he has to sit on while people examine him and do things to his body.

He remembers vividly the cabin where they found the HYDRA agents and Bucky. He remembers the machines and the chair. Steve remembers thinking it looked odd but hadn’t given it a second thought. Now, he knows why it had looked odd: the chair had included restraints and the one for the left arm had looked more complicated and…

_Fuck_, Steve thinks the moment his stomach lurches.

There had been brown stains, most certainly dried blood.

Steve touches Bucky’s arm to get his attention. Bucky’s nostrils flare and the air from his lungs exits in a whoosh. He looks at Steve with big, shiny eyes, the blue from his irises seeming almost white under the fluorescent lights. For a second Steve doesn’t know what is happening to Bucky and he stays petrified. Then Bucky blinks and turns his head to inspect his surroundings, and everything clicks, Steve’s own experiences coming to mind and the resent web searches.

Slowly, telegraphing his movements, Steve places himself on Bucky’s right with some space between them so as not to crowd him. He wants to touch Bucky but he fears it will make the man feel threatened, restrained. His hand stays near Bucky’s arm but Steve doesn’t touch.

“Bucky, you’re having a flashback,” Steve states calmly and slowly enunciating each word. He notices Tony shuffling away, giving them a moment. Bucky doesn’t react and Steve repeats his name. His voice is even, calm, but Steve’s heart is beating against his chest like a hammer. He feels like he’s going to fuck up.

“Bucky, it’s all right, you’re safe.” Steve swallows. He notices Tony coming back with a glass of water—he also realizes the music has been muted. From the corner of his eye, he sees Tony place the glass on the workbench and retreat again. Steve takes a breath.

“You’re in New York.” Bucky’s eyes are on the chair again and his chest is heaving, breath hitching—Steve can hear it even through all the sounds the machines are making. “Bucky, you are safe in Avengers Tower.”

Steve wants to touch him, drag him away from the damned chair, sit him down and talk with him. He knows it will just make things worse even if he has good intentions.

“Bucky.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches, his head tilts in the direction of Steve’s voice. “It’s me. Steve. Do you know where you are?”

Bucky’s brow lowers in a frown and Steve clings to that. “What can you see, Buck?”

He notices Bucky’s throat working and his lips parting. “Buck.” Steve feels like running and punching and jumping from a plane with no parachute.

“The chair.” His throat clicks when he swallows down. Steve sees how his hand shakes.

“What else?” he encourages, taking half a step closer.

Bucky mumbles and tries to form words but he can’t until his eyes finally lift. He blinks repeatedly. “Tables.”

“That’s good, Bucky. What else?” Half a step closer. Bucky tucks his hand inside the pocket of his sweatshirt and grips the fabric in a fist. He clears his throat.

“Machines a-and a robot.”

Steve looks away from Bucky’s face and sees Dum-E. He hears music again, low so not to startle Bucky. “Do you hear that?”

Bucky’s eyes turn distant while he focuses on his hearing. “Billie Holiday.”

“Yes.” He searches for Tony and when he finds him on another workbench, Steve directs at him a thankful smile.

Steve steps in front of Bucky when he sees his shoulders go down. “Bucky, can I touch you?”

Bucky’s head lifts and he looks at Steve like he doesn’t understand the question. He’s about to repeat himself when Bucky answers “yes” and gives a step forward, hand getting out of his pocket and hovering in the space between them.

Steve finally lets his hands touch Bucky and relief crashes over him, so powerful he feels lightheaded. One palm gently circles Bucky’s wrist, thumb stroking the soft skin, and the other closes over his ribs. He isn’t completely sure anymore that he’s doing this only for Bucky.

“You had a flashback,” Steve says again. Bucky looks at him and seems to understand—maybe not the word but this is clearly not the first time it’s happened. He shuffles an inch closer to Steve. Bucky’s breathing has finally calmed down and, taking into account Bucky’s own actions, Steve deems it safe to slip one arm around his back and finally get them chest to chest.

Steve feels Bucky tuck his face in the space between shoulder and neck. Steve feels his exhale. He feels Bucky’s lashes against his skin. The knot in his throat dissolves and he can finally inhale enough air. Steve’s other hand combs through Bucky’s hair and he feels the man’s hand cling to his own t-shirt.

The lights in the lab dim a little bit so as not to irritate Bucky’s eyes. Steve has to find a way to thank Tony for everything.

“You’re okay now, Bucky.”

Bucky’s only answer is to exhale against Steve’s skin and lean some more of his weight on him.

Steve doesn’t know how much time has passed when Tony nears them again with an obvious expression of awkwardness. “Not that I don’t find this… weirdly cute,” he starts saying and Steve feels like giving a heavy sigh. “But you came here with a reason, so…”

Steve scowls at first but eventually pulls away from Bucky. The man’s eyes flicker, making it seem like he’s waking up from a trance. “I’m not sure Bucky—”

“I’ll do it,” Bucky cuts him off, eyes trained on Tony.

Steve’s mouth hangs open, making a stellar impression of a fish out of water. Tony’s eyebrows also arch with surprise. Before they can say anything, Bucky gives one step away from them and near the chair. Steve still sees it as a common office chair, but Bucky’s muscles stay strained when he forces himself to sit on it.

“Well,” Tony is the first to speak even if he too sounds staggered. He clears his throat and Steve can pinpoint the exact moment Tony finds his bearings. “First, I’m going to take a blood sample. This time with your consent, of course.” His smile is stiff.

“Water under the bridge, right?” Bucky says, lips trying to pull upwards but there’s a sheen of sweat covering his forehead and Steve has the crazy need to burn every chair on the planet.

“That’s good to know,” Tony says. He isn’t trying to smile anymore but his serene expression seems to be having a better influence on the atmosphere. Steve would like to know how he does that.

While Tony goes to fetch himself a stool, Steve shuffles in place. He’s keeping a close eye on Bucky. There is no shield to throw, no orders to give or bad guys to catch here. He can only wait and offer himself as an anchor to Bucky.

He hates it.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Steve blinks down at Bucky. Bucky blinks up at him, eyes round with surprise. “I don’t know where that came from.”

“I’ll tell you,” Tony chimes in. He rolls to where they are, carrying a spare stool he pushes in Steve’s direction. Steve sits on it and rolls to Bucky’s left after Tony takes his right side. “That’s from _Pee-wee’s Big Adventure_.” He doesn’t get any sign of recognition at that. “Tim Barton’s movie.”

“I know who that is,” Steve says, sitting straighter.

“I don’t,” Bucky says. He has a little frown but doesn’t seem concerned.

“He’s a film director,” Steve informs him and he hears Tony mutter something about ‘decrepit philistines.’

“Oh, he makes movies,” Bucky says like he’s just understood a difficult math problem. Tony is gaping and to Steve it seems like he’s going to have a coronary. Steve, on the other hand, can feel a grin taking over his face. “Do they finally have sound?”

Tony stops spluttering when he finally catches sight of Steve’s shit-eating grin. “Oh, no, now it’s going to be twice as annoying!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky says. He’s still tense, Steve can tell, but Bucky is getting more comfortable, his body starting to believe there is no threat here. Steve would like to touch his hand. “Don’t tell me they’re still in black and white.”

“Ok, you do you, grandpas,” Tony says rolling his eyes at them as Steve chuckles. “Now, Barnes, I’m going to get those samples,” he states like someone commenting it’s a sunny day.

Tony has already put gloves on and he has a syringe in his hand. Steve had expected Bucky to have another flashback, some negative reaction at least, but he’s looking down at the needle with one arched brow, like he had been expecting something different.

“Can I start?” Bucky nods once and Tony asks him to clench his hand in a fist and he puts the tourniquet on his bicep. Tony cleans the skin (Bucky frowns at him but doesn’t comment on how it was an unnecessary thing to do) so he can finally insert the needle and start extracting the first sample of his blood. Bucky looks with interest at the procedure.

“It seems like you got yourself a list-buddy, Cap,” Tony comments when he’s starting with the second sample. Steve is just as transfixed on watching Bucky’s expressions as Bucky is on watching what Tony is doing. Steve makes a questioning noise. “I’m sure he knows just as little as you about pop-culture.”

“Oh.”

It’s strange to think there is a person on the planet who is just as out of place as Steve, if not more. Someone who was born a hundred years ago but doesn’t look more than thirty. A person that doesn’t have a clue what happened in the last seventy years and now has to catch up. Steve can only stare at Bucky when it finally dawns on him that this is a person with whom he shares life experiences.

“I think Bucky has more important things to deal with right now,” Steve says in the end. There might be a lot of things they share, but the big difference is that Steve spent the last seventy years taking a nap and Bucky…

Yes, definitely not the same.

Tony only shrugs and Steve averts his eyes when he catches Bucky looking at him.

Tony is starting on the third vial while the three share a tense silence. That’s probably why he has the need to say something.

“Don’t mind me asking,” Tony starts, eyes focused on what he’s doing, “but do you two know each other?”

Steve and Bucky share a confused look. “What?” Steve is the first to answer. “Of course not.”

Tony lets out a scoff and glances at Steve for a second. “Well excuse me but you’ve been calling him _Bucky_ since we discovered who he is.”

It seems like Bucky is just realizing the same thing. And Steve too.

It had felt natural since the beginning and Steve hadn’t even given it a second thought when Bucky hadn’t asked how Steve knew his nickname. Bucky had been too busy gaining memories and recuperating but Steve didn’t have an excuse. It had just… felt right. Sargent James Barnes had been a recurring subject between the Howlies and Steve had even asked some questions about the missing man.

Tony is finishing with the third and final vial but Steve’s attention is only on Bucky’s attentive eyes. He knows they hide a small dose of mistrust and Steve wills his brain to come up with a fast and eloquent way to explain everything.

“You called me Bucky,” he says.

Steve gets to his feet and takes the glass Tony had placed on the workbench. He hands it to Bucky but he doesn’t take it, only looks up at Steve with a scowl.

“I knew Dum Dum.” Steve watched Bucky’s eyes turn distant and then his breathing abruptly stops for three seconds—Steve counts them. Bucky accepts the glass and takes a sip.

“Dugan,” Bucky says with a distant voice. He takes another sip of water but his eyes stay on his lap. Steve can almost hear Bucky’s memories running through his brain.

“He told me you were the one who came with the nickname,” Steve comments. His smile is short-lived when he realizes Bucky is lost in memory.

Tony shoots him a worried look. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay with him,” Steve says, rolling his chair to Bucky’s right side. Tony leaves with the three vials of blood.

Steve takes the glass from Bucky’s hand and replaces it on the workbench. Bucky directs a quick glance to Steve’s face and his eyes become distant again. His lips are parted and his brow furrowed.

“Bucky?” This time, Bucky’s head tilts in Steve’s direction and he makes a little sound of acknowledgment. “I knew Gabe Jones, too. Do you remember him?”

“I…” He trails off and his hand raises to touch his forehead. The minuscule prick on the inside of his elbow must have already healed but Tony had still sellotaped a piece of sterile gauze over the area.

“He was in Azzano,” Bucky says, eyes opening wide with recognition. “When HYDRA got us and…” He gets lost in thought once more and Steve doesn’t interrupt.

Steve’s hands are sweating and he’s making sure his legs don’t bounce. There’s a foul taste at the back of his throat. Bucky’s mouth ticks up with a memory and then back down with a different one.

“How did you meet Dugan?” Bucky suddenly asks, leaning over the arm of the chair.

“I…” Now it’s Steve’s turn to lose his voice. He swallows down what tastes like bile. “I was in Austria.”

Bucky’s brows lift with surprise. Before he can formulate a question, Steve clarifies. “I wasn’t part of any of the units HYDRA captured.” Bucky’s expression turns to obvious confusion still underlined by mistrusts. His eyes dart to the lab’s exits. “I went to Austria to try and rescue the soldiers. Which I did,” he finishes with.

Bucky stares at him, eyes darting over Steve’s face. “They were rescued.” Bucky’s voice is devoid of any emotion and Steve feels on edge. He watches as Bucky leans back against the chair.

“Bucky?”

“You rescued them? All of them?” Bucky is looking at him sideways.

“I let the soldiers out of the cells and they did the rest. We fought our way out of there but some of the men didn’t make it. Dugan and Gabe did.”

Bucky nods his head. Steve fidgets in his seat.

“How did you get there?”

“Plane.” Bucky arches a brow. “I had some help… Actually, Tony’s father, Howard, gave me a ride to Austria.”

“Hm.” Bucky seems to get lost in thought again, head bowed and hand taking its usual place inside his pocket.

Steve scrubs his palms over his thighs and listens to the music still coming from the speakers. He can see Tony out of the lab, speaking on the phone with someone, multiple holograms dancing before him.

“Captain America!” Bucky suddenly exclaims and Steve jumps on his stool. Bucky’s eyes are wide and his mouth gapes open. “Oh my God, you’re Captain America.”

Steve fears something has happened to Bucky’s brain and is about to call for Tony and an ambulance, to hell with keeping Bucky’s existence a secret. “Bucky, you already knew that,” Steve says carefully.

Bucky leans towards Steve. “No, no, not _that_ Captain America,” he says as if it makes any kind of sense. “I remember you! _The movies!_”

“Oh,” Steve exhales the word. “Oh, no.”

Nowadays, people know Captain America worked for the U.S.O., touring the nation promoting war bonds. They know this as a minor detail only, because Captain America punching real Nazis and aliens is far more exciting than Captain America punching a fake Hitler night after night in front of kids while wearing a costume.

Steve remembers that period of his life in a bittersweet kind of way. He’d felt awkward in front of the public, taking pictures and signing autographs to kids. He had felt useless, knowing all the soldiers that were losing their lives while he was a dancing monkey. Still, seeing the kids’ eyes shine while watching his performance had made him feel some kind of hope in those years. Also, the U.S.O. girls had been easy to work with and fun company.

“I hated you, man,” Bucky says but the confession is accompanied by a grin that gives Steve pause. He’s sure he’s never seen Bucky smiling like this. His voice sounds lighter as if there aren’t seven decades of horror weighting it down. “I never watched one of your performances but I did watch one of your stupid movies.” Steve has never heard him talk so much so fast.

“I remember…” Bucky makes a pause but Steve thinks it’s because he’s trying to remember something and not because he has a problem forming words. “Yes, I remember!” Bucky jumps in his seat, leaning towards Steve and he feels so gobsmacked that he’s unable to speak or move. The man before him looks like a completely different person. “I watched that movie and I hated you but I remember thinking: ‘Wow he knows how to wear those tights.’”

Steve feels himself go red. Bucky lets out a heartfelt laugh and Steve’s brain spears a thought to the lines that form around Bucky’s eyes. “That’s, uh, that’s good to know, Buck.”

“Oh my God.” Bucky seems to be having trouble breathing, he’s laughing so hard. Steve frowns for only a fraction of a second and then he can’t help but smile. “Tell me you didn’t assign yourself the title of captain,” Bucky says between peals of laughter. He sags on the chair, head thrown back when Steve twists his lips, the gesture enough for Bucky to understand.

Steve lets Bucky laugh it out, arms crossed in feigned annoyance. “It was already in the name,” he grumbles.

“Unbelievable,” Bucky says, drying a few stray tears that roll from the corners of his eyes.

“It’s not that funny.”

“My abs hurt from laughing, Steve,” Bucky counters. Steve tries not to smile too hard. “So you rescued those soldiers in your tights? Wish I had seen it.” There’s no bitterness in his tone but Steve still feels his muscles tense. “It wasn’t your fault, Steve.”

Steve averts his eyes, arms tightening around his middle. It’s not Bucky’s responsibility to make Steve feel better for things he thinks are his fault or not.

“Steve.” Bucky’s hand touches his arm, the fingers almost imperceptible. Steve forces himself to looks the other man in the eye. “You didn’t know I even existed, there’s nothing you could have done.” Steve makes his head nod. “You got me out of there at the end.”

“I only found you because I wanted to kill you, Buck.” He knows Bucky already knows this, but telling him feels dangerous, even if he doesn’t know why.

“It doesn’t matter anymore. You got me out of there.” Bucky’s eyes are piercing while he stares Steve down, wanting Steve to believe him. “Stop being so pig-headed, Steve,” he scolds but Bucky’s hand has reached Steve’s and Steve lets his arms unfold so he can cradle Bucky’s hand, skin cool to the touch. His knuckles have completely healed.

It’s strange, Steve muses, how things play out, how life rolls the dice. Steve moves his stool until his knees knock with Bucky’s. His eyes stay on Bucky’s hand.

“Where are you from?” Steve finally asks one of the questions he’s wanted for so long.

Bucky looks at their hands and then at Steve. “Brooklyn born and bred.”

_Fuck this world._

“Oh,” is what he says even though his blood is boiling and he feels like trashing the place. “Me too.”

They stay silent and it feels good. He calms down. Steve keeps holding Bucky’s hand and studying it like it’s crucial for his survival. He chances a look or two at Bucky’s face and is glad to see the man’s face is relaxed, the same way as his body.

It’s not long until Tony comes back.

“So there are a few things we have to discuss, Barnes.”

Steve and Bucky put some distance between them when Tony approaches, one brow arched.

“Okay, so here’s the thing: you’re not a free citizen. I mean, right now you aren’t even a citizen.” Bucky snorts. “The world doesn’t know you exist—well, except HYDRA, of course, and that’s the reason why you can’t exit this building.

“I’m working on making you a real boy again,” Tony reassures. He types on his phone for a minute. “I have a legal team—the best, mind you—working this out but we don’t know how much it will take. I will also need you to sign some permits.

“Also, therapy. I know, Rogers, it’s important, I’m on it too and I think I have the perfect candidates for Barnes’ case. Zorina is one of—”

“Tony,” Steve cuts in.

“What?” The engineer lifts his head from his phone.

“You’re going a bit fast for my brain,” Bucky says. “For now, could you just explain the situation? What I can do and what I can’t.”

Tony blinks but Steve can see him changing the way he’s going to approach the situation. “Of course.” He leaves the phone on the workbench and places his hand between his knees. “I know it’s not fair, Barnes, but we can’t have you roaming the streets.” Steve wants to protest, but Bucky just nodding his head is enough to give him pause.

“Can he at least go out to the balcony of our apartment? Maybe to the roof? The Tower is the tallest building in New York, there’s no way anyone can see him up there.”

Tony adopts a pensive expression for a second. “I’ve already thought about that but…” He looks at Bucky who doesn’t seem disappointed but resigned. “We could try,” Tony says. Bucky almost seems to perk up at that but he still seems gloomy, his mood suddenly sinking.

“Okay, balcony and roof are green but going out is red,” Tony says. “We have the private gym so you can show him that too.”

Steve’s eyes stray from Bucky’s slumped form, shoulders drawn like no one is talking to him, and he finds Tony’s, who seems to have noticed Bucky’s change of mood too.

“Well…” Tony drawls. “I’ll be getting on with the shakes. If you have any questions you know how to find me.” He gives Steve one last meaningful look and then he’s gone.

“You okay?”

Bucky looks at him eventually but he seems reluctant. He massages his shoulder and Steve has the feeling he’s looking for the correct words to tell him whatever he has in mind.

“Could I sleep alone tonight?”

There are more than a few ways Steve wants to react to the words, which go from being hurt to a full-blown tantrum. He settles on a dispassionate “yes.”

They stare at each other for a long minute.

“So…” Steve clears his throat. “Do you want me to show you the gym?”

Bucky stares at him without answering and Steve tries not to fidget under his gaze, the same way he tries not to overthink Bucky’s request. Steve thinks he’s panicking on the inside even when he feels numb.

“Okay,” Bucky answers eventually. He stands up and waits for Steve to show him the way.

Steve tries to understand what went wrong in the last five minutes and it only makes his stomach twist with uncertainty. The hopelessness from the morning comes crashing over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I hope you and your loved ones are doing okay during the pandemic (never thought I’d say that.) Since I work in a school, I’m on “vacations.” Hope they pay me :))))))
> 
> Thanks for the kudos, the bookmarks, and the comments, guys, I always appreciate them! If you have any questions about the story, if there's anything I have to explain, just drop a comment.
> 
> I would truly love to read your thoughts on this chapter!
> 
> EDIT 12/4/2020: I promise this story isn’t abandoned, far from it. The next chapter is finished, has been for a few days, but I’m editing it because I feel it’s lacking. Also, I thought the quarantine would be a good moment to write but, as it seems to have happened to a lot of other people, I haven’t really felt inspired, or creative, or just wanted to sit down and write.
> 
> I feel really bad, I want you to read the next chapter but I just _can’t_ post things I don’t feel are at least 75% good.
> 
> Hope you guys are handling well all this and the situation hasn't screwed you over too much.


	20. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!! I feel so bad guys but I really haven’t felt like sitting down and writing, or at least not as many times as it was needed to finish the chapter in less than a month.
> 
> Part of this ch I wrote high, another part watching Mad Max: Fury Road. Just saying.

Bucky can’t really make himself appreciate the private gym. He now remembers the one he went to when he lived in Brooklyn and recognizes that this one is way fancier but… It just seems too sterile. It reminds him more of HYDRA’s labs than their gymnasiums. Those he remembers too, the place where he was taken to be trained and to train others. This one and HYDRA’s are radically different.

Nonetheless, he sits on a bench and he exercises because it’s what’s expected of him. At some point, though, he just sits and watches Steve run. Bucky declined when Steve asked if he wanted to use one of the treadmills; he doesn’t feel like running, especially if it won’t take him anywhere.

He observes Steve’s concentrated expression and tries to find the man from the movie he and the other soldiers watched during the war. It’s difficult, especially now that Steve’s face is covered in stubble and his features look sharper and hardened by life. But he’s there—_some_ of that man is there. Bucky doesn’t remember the whole film but the man he watched looked fairly different from the one he has before him, even smaller.

Bucky leans forward on his knee, counting the differences—maybe it’s because Steve’s shoulders are square, his spine straight and his head high. Steve is sprinting now and he looks in deep concentration. Bucky gets to his feet and hesitates for a moment. He doesn’t feel comfortable leaving the gym without anyone’s consent, neither leaving Steve’s side.

Bucky takes a look at the large room, the shiny machines, the wide windows… He takes a step back from them. The world behind those windows… Right now, Bucky doesn’t want to have anything to do with it, he wouldn’t know how to cope. His breath is already picking up just by thinking about all that is waiting for him out of these walls.

There isn’t much to do here if one refuses to exercise so Bucky’s attention returns to Steve. He’s properly sweating now and his respiration is accelerated. It looks like he’s trying to escape something and Bucky almost tells him that much.

Bucky is hovering near the treadmills—as close as he can get without seeing out of the windows—when Steve stops running and dries his sweat with a towel. He stops on his feet when he sees Bucky, as if he had forgotten he was here.

“Hey, Buck.”

Bucky knows he made things awkward for the two of them, could see it all over Steve’s face, but he felt it was what he needed to do. He can’t be in a room alone, he feels like he needs someone’s approval every time he wants to do something, he fucking needs someone to _hold_ him while he sleeps. In all three cases that someone is Steve. Bucky isn’t stupid, he knows that behavior isn’t practical if he expects to recover his autonomy. Also, it can’t be pleasant to be responsible for a person you barely know, one that attacked you and your friends, that put one of them in a hospital bed.

All in all, it’s humiliating to remember all the things Steve has agreed to do for Bucky because he wasn’t able to do them himself or… Or just wanted someone to help him.

It’s strange to think that person is the same guy he watched in a black and white movie, decades ago, shooting a fake gun and killing fake Nazis. Bucky had detested the man at the time, knowing he was safe and playing make-believe while Bucky was risking his life along with his brothers in arms. He also remembers his other thoughts regarding the blonde man in the movie, thoughts he couldn’t share with his fellow soldiers and just another reason why he decided that some distancing was needed.

Bucky tries to redirect his brain to a safer path when his heart jumps inside his chest. “You ready to go?”

Steve looks taken aback by Bucky’s blunt words but agrees with a nod. “I only have to take my clothes from the locker room; it’ll be just a moment.”

Bucky waits for him outside and doesn’t look at Steve when he comes back and they enter the elevator. He feels Steve’s eyes on him. Steve opens his mouth a couple of times, probably wanting to ask Bucky what crawled up his ass, but he’s too polite and in the end he doesn’t say anything.

“You want to try eating something that isn’t only shakes?” Steve asks when they reach his apartment. Bucky stops in his tracks and frowns at him.

“I can’t eat solid food.”

“Yeah, I know,” Steve hurries to say, taking a step closer, one hand reaching in Bucky’s direction but he seems to think better and his arm falls to his side. “But eventually you will have to start eating real food.” Bucky still doesn’t understand. “I read about it, how to reintroduce yourself to solid foods.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say and can just stare at Steve. He’s been taking care of his injuries, he’s _bathed_ him, a fully grown man; he has even accepted to sleep in the same bed as Bucky. And now he says he’s been looking for a way Bucky can go back to eating normal food. He doesn’t know what to make of that information—_of Steve._ So he stares.

“You want, right?” Steve continues once he sees Bucky won’t speak. “I mean, the shakes are okay but they aren’t really gourmet. They don’t taste like real chocolate.” He attempts a smile and Bucky feels out of place, again.

Steve walks to the kitchen and Bucky finds himself following, once again caught in Steve’s orbit. “I read that you have to start small and slow. You have the serum so it will probably take you less than other people to return to normal food, but I don’t want to risk it.”

Bucky sits on a stool, his back to the rest of the apartment and his eyes fixed on Steve while he rummages in the fridge and cabinets. When he had still been in Stark’s laboratory, when he asked Steve if he could sleep alone this night, he had thought that once he came back to this floor, he would go to his room and stay there for the rest of the day.

“Here, try this.” Steve places a glass before him and Bucky has to control his body so as not to startle. “It’s cranberry juice.” Bucky peeks at Steve’s face. His hopeful expression almost makes Bucky sigh with resignation. He takes the glass and takes a sip.

“Shit.” Bucky puts the glass back on the kitchen island.

“What? Is it expired?” Steve sits on Bucky’s right (_always_ on his right) and takes the cranberry juice to take a sip of his own. He raises an eyebrow in Bucky’s direction, not understanding what’s the matter.

“It tastes too…” He fishes for a word. “Strong.”

Steve’s gaze falls to the glass and his eyes widen with understanding. “Oh. Shit, of course.”

“It doesn’t taste bad,” Bucky hurries to say when Steve’s expression turns to the one that says ‘I should have anticipated that outcome.’ Bucky takes another sip to prove it but his face scrunches when the juice makes his taste buds feel on fire.

“We’ll try with something else. Chicken soup. Yeah, that should do it—but you probably shouldn’t eat the chicken.” Bucky watches as Steve takes ingredients and starts to chop. He doesn’t want to go to his bedroom anymore.

“Sorry, didn’t ask you if you wanted.”

“Hm?” Bucky opens his eyes and directs a questioning look at Steve.

“Do you want soup?” His mood looks to be edging on nervous so Bucky doesn’t make him wait and nods his approval with a calm expression. “It sounds fine. Thanks.”

“It’s no problem.” Steve seems to relax. Bucky observes him with his head on his palm. “I’ll warn you that I’m not really great at this but my cooking is edible.”

“I think it would be good to start with food that doesn’t have a lot of flavor.”

“Well…” Steve turns with a smirk. “Then I’m your guy.”

Bucky snorts at that, the sound surprising him. Steve keeps smiling at him and Bucky’s stomach does a flip and a second later he feels his face blanch. He has the sudden impulse to clear his throat but fights it. Steve returns his focus to his hands.

“Steve.”

“Hmm?”

“How are you alive?”

Steve stops moving and Bucky’s throat suddenly stops functioning as well. He watches Steve’s back and waits for a reaction. His hand doesn’t ball into a fist and his fight or flight response doesn’t activate. He straightens on his stool and his hand falls to the kitchen island.

“You mean how I’m not ninety in the twenty-first century?” Bucky can picture Steve’s smile. Bucky stops fearing Steve may have gone through something similar to what brought Bucky to this century looking only… Huh, he’s not sure how old he appears to be.

“I was fighting HYDRA, actually,” Steve starts saying while he stirs the vegetables. “Things didn’t go as planned… but when do they?” he adds as if speaking to himself. “HYDRA was sending self-piloted planes—they had bombes Schmidt wanted to detonate in American cities.” Bucky believes he can imagine more or less what happened then. Still, he wants to hear Steve tell the rest. “Somehow—lucky me—I got rid of Schmidt. Red Skull.”

(the names ring a bell but nothing more)

“Still.” Steve pauses. “I was on the only plane that wasn’t down and someone had to redirect it.”

“You didn’t give your coordinates?”

“I was,” Steve’s voice has an absent quality to it. “I was going to give her my coordinates but…” Steve sighs lightly and lowers his head. “I don’t remember it clearly but I think I hit my head on the console before I could say anything.”

“Where did the plane land?”

“The Arctic.” Bucky gives out a strangled laugh, voice full of incredulity. Steve turns his head over his shoulder to look at him.

“Steve,” he says his name with a face that’s showing astonishment at the same time as delight fights for some space. Bucky gets down from the stool and gives a step around the island. Steve has turned completely and it’s looking at him with amusement.

“Steve, are you about to tell me that you crashed a plane in the North Pole and got yourself frozen?” Bucky doesn’t know if to laugh or smack Steve—that’s just too stupid and ridiculous to really happen. And yet Steve looks like the kind of person who would crash a plane because there was nobody else to do it or time to think on another plan.

Steve’s expression doesn’t betray anything but Bucky catches the red that rises in his face. “Depends if you’re about to laugh or have a coronary.”

“You…” Bucky doesn’t know how to follow that. The moment he sees the corner of Steve’s lips tick up, the hint of a smile, Bucky can’t keep it in and lets out a bark of laughter, head thrown back and eyes closing.

“Oh, you think it’s funny I spent seventy years frozen?” By his little smirk, Bucky knows Steve isn’t seriously affronted. Bucky can only shove Steve and keep losing it, chest rising and body shaking. “And that they only found me because of global warming?”

Steve only looks at Bucky with wide eyes when he throws an arm over his shoulders, afraid he will fall to the floor. “Tony calls me Popsicle.”

In Bucky’s mind, a red, white and blue ice cream pops up and Bucky feels his legs almost fold. Steve passes a warm arm around his waist while the two shake with laughter. Bucky turns off the stove when Steve doesn’t remember to do it and they lean on each other and the countertop for support.

“Jesus,” Bucky struggles to say between peals of laughter, his sides hurting. “It reminds me of this guy…” He can’t finish the sentence, folding over when he cracks up again. Steve’s hand is on his chest when Bucky straightens, as if for extra support. “Oh God, I met this soldier in the war who told me…”

“Come on, Buck!” Steve exclaims when Bucky is unable to finish again.

There’s a tear sliding down Bucky’s cheek but he doesn’t make an attempt to wipe it, his arm staying firmly around Steve’s shoulders. He doesn’t have a memory of ever feeling like this; like his chest is going to burst at any moment but it won’t actually hurt. Of his stomach hurting in a way that isn’t completely uncomfortable.

“He told me he’d gone to basic with this crazy guy that had jumped on a dummy grenade when he thought it was real,” Bucky says when he catches his breath. “He said the madman was ninety pounds soaking wet.”

Bucky tries to reach for the memory, remember more details. He recalls the face of the soldier who had told the story with wide eyes, as if he was once again witnessing the incident, still unable to fully believe it. Bucky remembers his own reaction and thoughts from then and he feels almost the same way seventy years later; a mix of bewilderment and admiration.

He looks at Steve after a minute, realizing that he’s stopped laughing and the hand on his chest is gone.

“Maybe the guy was trying to protect the other people,” Steve says, brows pulled together and down as Bucky struggles to read his expression.

“I mean, yeah but…” Bucky tries to explain, confused by Steve’s sudden change of mood.

“The guy probably reacted on instinct.” Steve hasn’t pulled away and Bucky is grateful because he feels like he missed a step in a staircase. He can only blink for a few seconds, looking at Steve’s face from a few inches of distance.

“I…” His eyes flash over Steve’s features again, searching for an answer. His only arm isn’t free and now it’s making him feel defenseless. “I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?”

It only takes a fraction of a second and Steve’s frown disappears and gives place to shock. The hand he has around Bucky’s torso tightens its hold and the other one gestures in the air. “No! No, Buck, nothing. Shit, sorry.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I only meant—”

“I respected the guy,” Bucky says, wanting to make things clear. He hadn’t taken any part on the scathing comments made about the ‘skinny weirdo that had covered a dummy grenade with his body.’ He had retold the story to Dugan, eyes still bright with astonishment and awe, praising the man’s courage.

Steve’s lips part, eyes dancing over Bucky’s face. “You did?”

“Yeah.” Bucky doesn’t understand Steve’s odd reactions but doesn’t know if he can ask. “Why?”

Steve takes a step back then and Bucky realizes how close they are—have been for the last five minutes. He thinks about getting some distance between the both of them but it doesn’t seem to bother Steve so he stays just where he is, indulging his own wants.

“How to say this,” Steve mutters, chin lowering with what seems self-consciousness. Bucky can only stare at Steve’s long lashes. His hand finally slips from Bucky, leaving behind a cold spot—Bucky can only follow suit. “I wasn’t always like this.”

Bucky stares at Steve’s hands and then at what they’re gesturing at—his body in general. He arches an eyebrow, expecting Steve to give more details. Steve huffs a breath before speaking again. “I used to be really skinny as a kid—not that there was a big change when I grew up. I was always sick before Dr. Erskine’s serum and Howard Stark’s machine turned me into… this.”

They stay silent while Bucky’s brain catches up with Steve’s words and their real meaning.

“No,” the word leaves his lips and Bucky doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or… smack Steve. His eyes are wide open while he stares at Steve, who has the gall to appear sheepish.

“Steve,” Bucky says, voice turned serious this time. “They shouldn’t let you leave the Tower without a nanny.”

Steve snorts, shoulders lowering. Bucky watches Steve when he closes his eyes, a gentle smile gracing his mouth. Steve bends to rest his arms on the countertop, still so close. “Sam… Sam thinks the same,” Steve says, voice turned gentle but carrying some uncertainty. Bucky stays rooted when Steve chances a look.

“He’s the guy I sent to the hospital?” Bucky already knows but it still hurts to see Steve nod.

Steve straightens up and puts a hand on Bucky’s uninjured shoulder. “Now I know it wasn’t you, Bucky.” Something in Bucky’s expression must give away his inner turmoil because Steve gets an inch closer and looks him with serious eyes. “You didn’t have a choice, Buck. It wasn’t you.”

Bucky doesn’t look away when he answers. “But I did it.”

Steve’s gaze falls to the floor and Bucky can see the conflict in his face; he wants to contradict Bucky, to argue his point. “Do you want to keep me company next time I visit him?” is what Steve ends up saying.

At first, Bucky thinks he must have misheard Steve but Steve keeps looking at him with earnestness, eyes hopeful.

“You can’t be serious.”

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

Bucky tries to start a sentence a few times but his words fail him. “I don’t know.”

Steve’s smile turns into something more genuine. “Don’t worry. For now, we can just watch a movie.” Bucky doesn’t know what to do, what to say. Steve waits for an answer without rushing him. “I’ll finish up with the soup and meanwhile you can choose a movie.”

“That… sounds fine.” Bucky’s tone is dull if not a bit unsure but Steve’s smile brightens.

Bucky stumbles to the couch, still reeling. He listens to Steve in the kitchen without paying a lot of attention to the TV at first.

“Are these movies part of your list?” Bucky asks, remembering Stark’s words. He glances over the back of the couch, Steve already looking at the screen.

“Yeah. People have recommended me movies but I haven’t had time to watch a lot of them. Which do you want to watch?”

“Haven’t chosen yet. How do I do it?”

Steve walks to the couch wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “Here.” He shows Bucky the remote which he then points at the screen. “Use these buttons to choose a movie.” Bucky watches Steve do it and then he’s handed the remote.

“The soup has to simmer for half an hour so we can start something.”

Bucky reads the titles twice but nothing rings any bells and right now it’s frustrating him. A lot of his memories have returned but all of them are from decades ago or things he lived while with HYDRA agents; none of it gives him a clue about the world he’s in. Also, he must have watched that movie Stark mentioned if he remembered the quote, but no memory has come to mind, no matter how much he has prodded it.

“You choose,” he grumbles, returning the remote to Steve with a sullen face.

Steve takes it with a chuckle but says, “J.A.R.V.I.S., play a random movie.”

A second later the screen darkens. Steve gets comfortable by Bucky’s side and Bucky tries to do the same. It’s difficult at first, Bucky becoming too conscious of Steve’s presence. He feels like his body is just one recently healed wound, the skin too new, too sensitive. When Steve is only inches away, when he finally touches… It’s like the flavors burning his taste buds, the only difference that he doesn’t want to start small.

Bucky doesn’t understand why he feels this way, but the tension eases up eventually and in a gradual way, as it has happened every other time.

When they see the woman with the metal arm, Bucky hears a soft ‘oh’ from his right. He turns and tries not to smile at Steve’s guilty expression.

“Stop that,” Bucky says as he smacks Steve’s thigh.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Steve diverts, arms already crossed in front of his chest, sinking deeper into the couch. Bucky snorts and goes back to the movie when Steve stops frowning.

Fifteen minutes into the movie, Steve goes back to the kitchen—Bucky smirks, sure that it probably has something to do with the muzzled “feral” guy. The movie is paused and Bucky further relaxes against the couch. He closes his eyes, listening to Steve’s movements and the smells that waft in the living room. The thick windows are muting the cars and people from the streets. In addition, the apartment is in such a high floor that there almost aren’t visible buildings. For a moment Bucky feels in a bubble, detached from everything else, past or present.

Steve is humming under his breath and Bucky feels something settle inside his chest, something that’s spent its entire life running, absconding.

Steve returns and informs him that the soup is almost done and they return to the movie.

Bucky is made aware of how different modern movies are from the ones he watched as a kid in his own time—the dialogues, the pacing, the acting itself, not to mention the special effects. He enjoys it, though, feels incapable of ungluing his eyes away from the screen, wondering _how the hell_ they made the movie.

Even when that is true, Bucky wants to watch movies he remembers from when he was a kid.

“We could…” He clears his throat before continuing and catches Steve turning his head. “After this movie, we could watch another?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“An older one?”

Silence follows his question but by the corner of his eye, Bucky sees Steve’s face brighten when he realizes what he’s actually asking. “I like that idea.”

He relaxes once again and concentrates on the movie.

“Wow,” Steve says after a few minutes. “That’s…”

“Yeah.” Neither one finds a way to put into words the unbelievable image that is a guy suspended by ropes on the front part of a vehicle (Bucky’s not sure that’s what it is but it has wheels, so it will do), playing a guitar that _shoots fire_.

“This is absurd,” Steve snickers but his mouth stays open and his eyes look like saucers.

“Yeah, but Furiosa is kinda amazing,” Bucky comments and Steve hums his agreement.

He feels some kinship with the character. There is the metal arm, for starters, but it’s her initial quietness that draws his attention, as well as her attentive eyes, the way you can tell even without seeing the bionic arm that the woman has gone through something that’s hardened her, that makes her always battle-ready.

Even when Bucky can see himself reflected in that superficial calmness, one that almost lets you see everything that’s bubbling under the façade if you look closely, the way he believes to be deep down is like the man in the muzzle. A restless energy driving his body, obviously mistrustful, taking the situation in hand because he fears no one else will do it right or won’t stab him in the back... But he can’t help himself but eventually trust.

Bucky can’t know with certainty if he’s always been like this, his mind blurring the edges of his perception when he concentrates too hard into the hole of a memory, threatening to drop him in one and just flicker the lights off.

But that restless energy, that’s how Bucky feels inside all the time. He doesn’t let it show, doesn’t give his body permission to act on the savage instinct inside of him that would have him pacing like an animal in a cage, snapping at everyone that dared to come a step too close.

It’s something that’s been there even before Steve and the others got him away from HYDRA. He remembers being handed a gun by an agent, told his mission, and he would imagine himself—just for a fraction of a second—grabbing the guy by the throat and just _squeezing_. He would take down all the others with the gun he was handed, deflect the bullets shot at him with his metal arm, rapidly finish the others, and…

And then his brain would come back to his body, a throbbing sensation behind his left eye grounding him down to earth, and his heart beating in his chest, wilder than he could ever remember it being.

Bucky reminds himself that the two characters don’t actually exist.

His mind goes back to the screen and Bucky’s eyes get wider with every scene. Even like that, he catches Steve looking at him—he probably thinks himself stealthy, but he’s just as sly as a shiny shield with a target painted on it. Bucky wonders if Steve expects him to react the same way as in Stark’s lab when he got sight of the chair.

It feels like no time has passed when Steve pauses the movie again and returns to the kitchen.

“Here.” Bucky takes the bowl of soup he’s handed and places it on the low table in front of him. He looks at it for a few seconds and then at the spoon. “Maybe it would be better to eat in a real table.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Steve takes his own bowl and Bucky follows him to the kitchen island where he will be able to eat without half of the soup falling to the floor or his pants. Bucky takes the spoon to his mouth and waits for the unpleasant explosion of flavors.

“Better than the juice?” asks Steve and Bucky nods.

“It doesn’t taste like nothing,” Bucky clarifies, thoughtfully looking at the bowl.

“It does to me,” Steve says after a snort. “But do you like it?”

“Yeah.”

He eats another spoonful. It doesn’t remind him of anything and he wonders if he’s spent so much time not eating real food that his brain has just forgotten how it really tastes. The protein shakes had already came labeled with their flavors but Bucky feels like he wouldn’t have guessed them just by taste. Steve had also told him that he didn’t really like the shakes because to him they just taste like powder—said he hadn’t told Stark about it because the shakes do their job which is to keep his body running.

“Try eating the carrots if you want, but try to chew _a lot_.”

“They have a bit more flavor,” Bucky comments thoughtfully after a moment.

“How does your stomach feel, though?”

Bucky concentrates on his stomach for a few seconds. “I think it’s doing okay.”

“Great,” Steve says with a pleased smile and after that, both of them go back to their dinner. Bucky decides that he likes this kind of silence, the one that isn’t expecting to be disrupted. 

Steve is serving himself a second helping when he speaks again. “You know, they talked about you.” His tone is controlled and when Bucky turns to look at him, Steve has his own eyes averted.

“Who?”

“Dum Dum.” He sits back on his stool as Bucky finishes eating. “Gabe, too. They all knew you some way or another.”

Again feels like something is expected of him, a reaction, a simple word of acknowledgment, a question…

“Dugan helped assemble a team after we returned from Austria. The Howling Commandos,” Steve says with a chuckle. “We were six.”

“What were the names of the other guys?” Bucky hears himself ask.

“Gabe Jones, Jim Morita, Jacques Dernier…”

“Frenchy,” Bucky mutters, a few images flashing before his eyes one after another in a rapid sequence. “He hated to be called that.”

“Yeah,” Steve says after a snicker. Bucky knows he’s being watched closely. “He said that you two didn’t really know each other but you would always find an excuse to talk with him and call him that.”

Bucky snorts and shakes his head, images of men in cages behind his eyelids. “Gabe was the one who did the translating.” Steve hums as well as nods his head. “Who else?”

“James Falsworth and, well, Dum Dum.” They stay silent but Bucky can still feel Steve observing him. It’s Bucky’s turn to wait him out. “Dugan said that you would’ve been a good addition to the team.”

Bucky doesn’t know how to feel about that and doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to let his brain wander to impossible scenarios where he got rescued or got himself off of that damned table and… and that scientist… God, he had forgotten about him. _Arnim Zola._

Bucky shuts his eyes, hand balling on his thigh, and refuses to think, to remember. He’s not opening that door. He’s here. _Here._ He feels Steve’s presence on his right, he can hear the hum of the refrigerator, he feels his stomach churning and there is a sudden pressure behind his eyes—

“Falsworth always said it would have been too many James.”

His eyes open. His lungs fill with air. He’s here.

“What do you need me to do, Buck?”

Bucky turns his head and sees Steve’s controlled but still concerned expression, one hand half to Bucky’s arm. “Just… just talk to me.”

The request seems to take Steve by surprise—his eyes turn a tad larger when Bucky grabs his hand and guides it to his own shoulder, the one that’s whole. “Um. Okay. I took one of the helmets from the U.S.O. girls. I think it was Aubrey’s.”

A startled laugh burst out of Bucky and he looks at Steve in amusement. He sees Steve’s own face lighten but is then that Bucky’s mind brings back the memory of how Steve’s face had looked like on the bridge. Bucky had hit him one time and again, only commands filling his skull. Steve had tried to save his friend from the Winter Soldier and he—_Bucky_—_James_—_the Soldier_ tried to kill him, complete the mission.

Right now, Bucky feels like he would rather rip his other arm off than do something like that again. Not to Steve, not to anyone.

“My mom’s name was Sarah,” Steve blurts and Bucky thinks it may be because Steve realized Bucky’s mind was spiraling. Steve gets up, hand still on Bucky’s arm. “She was a nurse.” He coaxes Bucky to get up too and guides him back to the couch. “She’s the real reason I’m alive today.”

He’s saying it like someone talking about the weather.

Bucky plops on the couch, Steve following suit, and tries to listen. “She never gave up on me. She didn’t care that I was as damaged as a person could be.” (Bucky wants to argue here but manages to keep his mouth shut.) “I mean, I had asthma, heart arrhythmia, stomach ulcers, anemia… And the list went on.” Steve is almost smiling and Bucky, once again, doesn’t know what to make of it. “But she never treated me like a burden even if I felt like one. She…”

Steve’s eyes seem to get lost then and when they’re back, the blue looks shinier. “She always told me to keep fighting. Didn’t matter how big the problem or how nasty the bully that knocked me down, she taught me that you always gotta get back up.”

They look at each other and after a long second, a little color rises to Steve’s cheeks, like he’s just realized that what he shared was perhaps too personal.

“Your mom sounds like an amazing lady,” Bucky says, hopping his voice carries the honesty of his words.

“She was,” Steve says with a soft tone, lips curling into a smile. “You wanna finish the movie?”

“That sounds great, pal.”

After sending Bucky a final look he can’t decipher, Steve presses play. The movie does the job of taking Bucky out of his mind for an hour and hopes it does the same for Steve.

He feels like he won’t stay awake for another movie.

“If you need anything just wake me up, all right?” Steve says, hovering just outside the bedroom. Bucky nods his head but it doesn’t seem to convince Steve because he adds a stern “seriously”—he catches himself and Bucky almost huffs a laugh when he sees Steve trying to relax his facial muscles.

“Got it,” he says for Steve’s sake.

Steve doesn’t leave right away but observes the room. Bucky wants him to go or he’ll ask Steve to stay.

“Have a good night, Bucky,” he says eventually with a crooked smile. Bucky feels a knot in his stomach and remembers again watching that stupid Captain America movie all those years ago, surrounded by fellow soldiers either laughing their asses off or cursing the black and white film. He remembers the thoughts and the sensation that had blossomed in his stomach, similar to the one he’s had all day long.

“Yeah, thanks,” he forces out, stilted.

“Remember to change the dressing on your shoulder.” It’s the second time he’s said it since they finished watching the movie and Bucky assures him one more time that he will.

Steve leaves and closes the door with a soft click. Bucky waits to hear Steve’s own door closing but it doesn’t come. He nears his own door, tempted to put his ear to the wood, and listens; he hears Steve going around his bedroom, most probably getting ready for bed. After a few minutes, there’s the rustle of sheets and blankets and finally, silence stretches. No door closed.

Bucky looks at his feet without really seeing them and focuses on his breathing, trying to rein in his brain. He grants his mind a minute to sort itself out and then he heads to the bathroom.

_It can’t be that hard to operate a shower_, he thinks as he looks at the cabin and then the knobs. Something tells him this shower is fancier than the normal modern ones—basically like everything he’s seen in this building.

Bucky strips and enters the shower. He feels like an idiot just looking at the knobs as if he’s about to pilot a plane, but there are more knobs than expected. He tries one and it starts fucking _raining_. Bucky looks up, too surprised to react, and takes notice of the holes in the ceiling. The water is cool and Bucky attempts to turn it hot.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath when the only thing that changes is the way the water falls. He’s getting annoyed and that’s when he turns something and a spray of cold water hits him on the face. Bucky’s response is quick and he throws himself back, shoulders hitting the shower screen. His feet slip on the wet floor and he falls down like a sack of potatoes.

“Shit,” he breathes out. Bucky blinks water out of his lashes and looks at the shower in bewilderment, his hand still on the air, hoping for something to grab on to stop the fall. Bucky breathes deeply for a few seconds and then hurries to get words past his numb lips. “J.A.R.V.I.S., tell Steve not to come.”

“Captain Rogers is asking if you need help.”

“No.” He keeps his teeth from chattering, jaw clenched tight. Bucky’s muscles hadn’t needed to do that today and he’s just realizing it.

“He asks if you’re hurt.”

“I’m not.”

_I’m functional_, is what he almost says.

There are no more questions after that and Bucky waits for his heart to calm. He doesn’t know if to laugh or let himself stew in his embarrassment. Eventually, he gets to his feet, his weak legs threatening to let him fall again. Bucky doesn’t get near the water at first, too many images pilling and pushing behind his eyes and he feels an unpleasant tickling sensation at the back of his skull, a feather-like touch threatening to squeeze his brain any moment. His hand isn’t steady when it moves towards the knobs but it gets the job done.

Bucky leans on the wall, the cabin silent again.

“A showerhead is not a hose,” Bucky says out loud, hoping against hope that maybe saying it out loud will make his stupid brain finally understand.

Mission not accomplished.

Bucky turns the knob that had turned the ceiling water on and this time he doesn’t try to change the temperature. He washes quickly and efficiently, using the products already on the shelf. When he gets out of the shower, Bucky feels a weight lift from his chest.

He wraps a towel around his waist and stands in front of the clear mirror. The unpleasant tickling sensation is back when Bucky looks at his shoulder. He stands before his reflection and the minutes pass. Bucky tries to move his hand to the bandages—he knows what he has to do; he remembers how Steve took care of the injury. Bucky knows he’s capable of doing it but he needs another five minutes before his limbs start obeying him again.

Bucky watches as the reflection in the mirror raises an arm and the hand takes hold of the tape and peels it off. A second later the shoulder is completely uncovered. Bucky closes his eyes and swallows past the lump in his throat. He studiously reins back his breathing, his heartbeat, and his thoughts. He thinks he’s the one that takes control but the next time he opens his eyes, he’s sitting on the bed.

Bucky is dressed with hair still wet over his shoulders. He gets his hand under the collar of the sweater and t-shirt he’s wearing and his fingers feel his shoulder for bandages. They’re there. Bucky turns his head one side and the other—he doesn’t know what he’s looking for but at least he makes sure he’s where he should be; his bedroom in the Tower. He’s alone, too.

Bucky gets up and goes back to the bathroom; it’s clean, the used dressings in the bin and the antibacterial lotion in its respective cabinet. He doesn’t know how much time he’s lost and he dreads the answer. Bucky paces for another few minutes, feeling his body weighting him down, his mind pulling him in dangerous directions, his hand shaking…

Bucky opens his door a few inches before getting under the blankets. He closes his eyes with a shaky sigh.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., can you please increase the temperature in the room a bit?” he mumbles when he feels himself drifting away. He wasn’t sure if that was something J.A.R.V.I.S. could control but it must be because he can feel the room getting warmer. He mumbles a thanks and a moment later he’s out like a light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus Christ this is the slowest of burns, wtf are these two doing?!
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter, need it more than ever now that ao3 isn’t counting guests' visits haha
> 
> Mad Max: Fury Road is from 2015, I know, but I wanted a scene with Bucky and Steve watching the movie almost since I started this fic so… lets act as if it’s already 2015 and the movie was released in January instead of May OR maybe at the end of 2014 idk. Doesn’t matter really but wanted to point out that.
> 
> I hope you’re all safe! Stay home!


	21. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took 3 MONTHS. There is a pandemic going on (as we ALL know), the BLM movement sucked me in (even tho I don’t live anywhere near the USA), it’s hot as balls where I live and my laptop smells as if it’s about to melt when I turn it on.
> 
> Hope you like this chapter, guys, really, I only spent 4h editing it today and I’m so clever I started at 10pm lol

Steve groans and pushes his head under a pillow, not feeling in the mood to get out of bed. He opens an eye and peeks at the bedroom. God, the sun hasn’t even come out yet. He’s trying to fall asleep when his phone rings again and Steve realizes it must have been what woke him up. His hand shoots from under the blankets and he slides the green icon to answer the call.

“Is it Avengers business?” Knowing Tony, he could be calling Steve at 5 a.m. because he just invented something.

“I don’t know, he won’t tell me.”

“Who?” Steve grunts.

“Secretary Alexander Goodwin Pierce.”

Steve lurches out of bed, starting to put his socks on while he balances the phone between his shoulder and ear. “When did he arrive? Has he said what’s going on?”

“Less than ten minutes ago, and no, he hasn’t.” Tony sounds too lucid and Steve assumes he was in his workshop when Pierce arrived at the Tower. “He wants the present Avengers to gather and then he’ll start dishing information. Just so you know, I’m not getting into any of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s business—apart from when I dig into their archive, but that’s completely different.”

“Okay, okay,” Steve cuts him off while he struggles to get into his uniform in the dark. He bumps a knee on his bedside table and twirls away from it with a grunt. “Fuck. Where are you right now?”

Once his pants are on, Steve pulls the top part of his suit off the hanger and shoots out the room and into the hallway where he comes to a halt. Bucky looks at him from his door, one foot still inside his room and the other outside. Steve notices his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows and Steve waits for him to say something, remaining uniform in one hand and phone in the other.

“Where are you going?” he asks and Steve takes a moment to marvel at the gentle voice; he always expects Bucky’s voice to be rougher and he’s always surprised by its softness.

“Avengers business,” he says, hastily pulling the uniform over his head. “You can go back to bed or drink a shake. You remember how to prepare them, right?”

_Of course he does; he’s a highly trained soldier._

He refrains from reminding him there is still chicken soup in the fridge. _The guy doesn’t have short-term memory loss, for God’s sake_, Steve reprimands himself, again.

Bucky nods his head while Steve struggles with the sleeves. _“Fuck.”_

A cold hand pulls at the fabric, knuckles grazing his stomach. Steve shivers at the contact and freezes when the top of the suit is finally in place. Bucky regards him with mild curiosity.

“Someone’s on the phone.”

“Huh?” Steve keeps staring with his lips slightly parted.

Bucky’s cold hand grabs Steve’s and lifts it. Steve’s eyes don’t shift from the man’s face. He fears his staring might be turning creepy—at least his mouth is closed now. Then he hears Tony’s voice and he’s broken out of his trance. “Oh. Uh, yes.” He lifts the phone to his ear, ignoring Bucky’s bemused look. “Tony, I’ll be there in five.”

Steve shoves the cell phone into a pouch. “I don’t know how long it will take but you can ask J.A.R.V.I.S. to inform me if you need anything.”

His hand is holding Bucky’s shoulder and Steve doesn’t know when that happened. Bucky looks worse than when they went to their respective bedrooms—actually, the shadows under his eyes seem more pronounced and his posture is slouched. The sun is rising and the light catches in the blue of his eyes. Steve catches Bucky’s lips moving.

“What? Sorry, what were you saying?” He refrains from rubbing the remaining sleep off his eyes.

“You shouldn’t make them wait,” Bucky says. Steve thinks Bucky is just trying to get rid of him but then he notices the apprehension etched in his features.

This time, Steve follows an impulse and, giving enough time for Bucky to move away—and making it as obvious as possible—he slides an arm around the man’s shoulders and draws him to his chest. It’s a weird experience, what with him being the only one engaging in the one-armed hug and Bucky’s body turning even stiffer.

Steve is about to pull away when he feels Bucky’s cold nose brush his neck. He smiles and gets his other arm around Bucky’s back, giving a light squeeze. Bucky is the first to draw back and Steve follows suit. God, his own body temperature feels like it has dropped down just by being in contact with Bucky. How can he stand it every day?

_Maybe this is how mom felt every time I had a cold_, Steve thinks when he has the sudden need to sit Bucky down, put a blanket around him, and make him some soup, _again._

He squeezes Bucky’s arm one last time, not aware of his own faint smile, and heads to the elevator with a goodbye. Bucky is still eyeing him with a pensive expression when the doors slide closed. Steve is curious about what must be on Bucky’s mind this morning.

Tony is in the hall when Steve exits the elevator; he’s gesturing for Steve to hurry up. Steve’s strides turn faster, his heart steady in his chest but thumping with twice as much force.

“Has he given any hints that he knows something?” Steve questions in a hushed tone when Tony puts a hand on his back and guides him to the conference room. His clothes have oil stains so Steve was correct in assuming he comes straight from his lab.

“He hasn’t said anything of use, only pleasantries. He complimented my J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Tony tells him with genuine disbelief. He doesn’t seem smug about it, something Steve finds unusual.

Steve doesn’t know what to say to that and the two of them finally enter conference room number 206. The first thing he sees it's that Natasha and Barton are sitting on one side of the table; he tries to mask his surprise. Pierce and Rumlow are also on their side of the table, the one that faces the door and it’s farther from it. Unlike the others, Rumlow is standing on his feet, and Steve wonders if he actually came without a jacket or if it must have been put away somewhere; it’s too cold outside to be in only a t-shirt, even for Steve.

“Mr. Pierce,” Steve greets and extends a hand over the table, studying Natasha and Barton from the corner of his eye; they’re still on full gear and look as if they’ve come from a mission. It makes sense since they left last morning.

Pierce stands up and holds Steve’s hand in a firm grip, an affable smile on his face. Steve liked the man from the first time they met; this is not something he can say about Rumlow.

Brock Rumlow encases Steve’s hand in a crushing grip while he smiles at him. Steve doesn’t know what he’s trying to achieve by sending contradicting signs. The man always stops to chat with Steve when he’s at S.H.I.E.L.D. H.Q. but at the same time, he acts like he’s trying to intimidate Steve by showing off his muscles and strength. Steve tries not to roll his eyes.

After Tony has shaken hands as well, both men sit down, facing the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and the Secretary.

“What brings you to my humble abode, Mr. Secretary?”

Everyone present knows Pierce is called Mr. Secretary by his friends; the same way they know Tony isn’t one of them. Steve fights the immature impulse to kick Tony’s leg under the table. Lucky for him, either Natasha or Barton doesn’t and he sees Tony jump in his chair. Tony glares at them and tries to kick back but the only thing he gets in return is a little smirk from Natasha and an innocent expression from Barton.

Steve would be amused if he wasn’t currently fearing that S.H.I.E.L.D. has discovered that he carried out a mission shot down by the own World Security Council, and he also implicated two of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s agents. His heart hammers inside his chest and his hands sweat profusely inside his gloves. His expression remains stoic.

“It seems you’re being a bigger influence on my agents than I thought, Stark,” Pierce says not without some humor.

“What can I say,” he says in a flat tone.

Steve had expected Tony to add a quip to his sentence so he feels puzzled when it ends at that. He chances a look at the man in question and notices that, in contrast to Steve’s posture being more at ease, Tony’s has turned tenser. Steve reminds himself that, unlike him, Tony doesn’t work with S.H.I.E.L.D. and that he deeply distrusted the organization. Steve does, too, to some degree, but not the same way as two years ago.

“What’s the reason for your visit, Sir?” Steve asks.

“I won’t beat around the bush, Captain Rogers.” Pierce leans forward, expression turning somber. “I would have liked for all the team to be present but I understand there isn’t much one can do to control Dr. Banner’s and Thor’s comings and goings, taking into account that one of them lives in a different planet.”

Steve can sense his teammate’s full attention focusing on Pierce—the other too must already know what Pierce is here for. This time, not even Barton’s face gives a clue away. Not for the first time, Steve wishes he had the same level of silent communication that Barton and Natasha have with each other.

“The four of you are still a great team.” Steve has already reached the obvious conclusion that S.H.I.E.L.D. needs the Avengers for a mission so he wants Pierce to start debriefing them.

“What’s the mission, Sir?” Steve asks.

“We need you to find the Winter Soldier.”

Steve feels his body turn to stone, his blood freeze, and he’s sure the others are having similar reactions, even Nat and Barton. All four of them mask their collective alarm and Steve gives a pensive nod.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Sir, what made you change your mind?” His mouth is dry and there’s a sour taste at the back of his throat.

Pierce doesn’t answer right away and Steve knows he’s being closely studied; he doesn’t know what Pierce is looking for, what will make him speak or what will convince him that he shouldn’t. He feels his muscles unclench a fraction when the clear eyes move to study Tony.

“Our intelligence got word of the Winter Soldier’s possible location. I sent a team—Agent Barton and Agent Romanov included—to check the place but the Winter Soldier wasn’t there anymore.”

Steve’s eyes want to seek Natasha, ask her if Pierce is talking about the cabin where they found Bucky and the two HYDRA agents.

(Steve’s brain spares a fraction of a second to remember that both agents are somewhere in the tower. He hopes they aren’t enjoying their stay.)

“Now,” Pierce continues, “even though the Soldier wasn’t found, we have reasons to believe that was his last hideout and that he’s currently accompanied by another two agents.”

Steve’s knee-jerk reaction is to ask for more details but part of him, one that sounds suspiciously like Peggy, is telling him to stay quiet and just listen.

“Captain Rogers,” Pierce addresses him, “I believe you suspected from the beginning I was here with a mission.” Steve is already looking at him and that’s the reason he sees Pierce’s face contract into something sour and then go back to his normal affable but professional expression. “We would also want Iron Man’s help to finally find the Winter Soldier and make him pay for what he’s done to our country and our citizens.”

Steve consciously keeps his face neutral. Inside his head, there is only one thing: _That’s a lie, that’s a lie, that’s a lie… It wasn’t him._

Steve turns to look at Tony, the tendons and muscles in his neck feeling stiff when he moves. Tony is holding Pierce’s gaze with a blank expression—or at least that is what seems to Steve at first. He can see in the man’s eyes the Tony that makes a stop mid-conversation because he’s had an idea and his brain needs half a minute to sift through the information that’s coming to his brain.

“I’m always up to help my country,” Tony finally says with a half-smile. Steve thought he already knew Tony, but right now he can't tell if the man's expression is honest or if it’s tricking even him.

“Then I'll see you in a few hours,” Pierce states, and Steve's eyes go wide this time; he doesn't know if he'll have enough time to explain the situation to Bucky as well as get ready. Pierce must have caught it because he says, “It’s short notice but I fear a day later would mean losing the Soldier’s trail.”

Steve follows when Pierce gets to his feet. “You will be part of another team,” Pierce informs, “with agents you’ve already worked with. Agent Rumlow is one of them, of course, and the head of the team.”

If he didn’t know better, Steve would say that Rumlow is reeling at him.

“We’ll be on the helipad before noon, Sir,” Steve confirms, hands going to his belt when they reach the door. Pierce and Rumlow exit the room, closely followed by Natasha and Barton.

“Agents,” Pierce addresses the two of them, “you can stay; I have to go over some details with agent Rumlow.” It is clear that Pierce isn't offering but giving an order.

“Of course, Sir,” Natasha says as Clint nods his understanding.

The four Avengers say their parting words and Pierce and Rumlow leave in the elevator's direction; once they're gone, Tony lets out a sigh. Steve looks at him but is Natasha and Clint's expressions that catch his attention.

“He sent us to the cabin,” Natasha informs him, holding his gaze. Steve isn't caught by surprise, not really, but his heart still skips a beat.

“It was shady,” Clint says. “We were with Rollins and he looked...” Clint purses his lips, searching for a good adjective.

“Suspicious,” Natasha says helpfully, making Clint snap his fingers.

“He knew where the secret entrance was,” Clint says, body leaning forwards as if he fears someone will hear them. “He tried to act as if he found it by chance but I was already keeping an eye on him.”

“He doesn't like Rollings,” Natasha informs Steve and Tony with a little smirk.

“And I was right not to!”

“It started because you thought he was stealing your lunch.”

“I know it was him,” Clint says with mild annoyance, mimicking Natasha's crossed arms. “And now he may be HYDRA.”

Natasha makes a sound as if she agrees with his statement.

“Something else happened during the mission?” Tony prods.

“There was a basement, outside the cabin,” Clint informs them. “He went in with another guy and didn’t let us even step down there.”

“He didn't let us go with him when he opened the secret door, either,” Natasha adds, looking at Steve and then Tony, her eyes letting them know how little she liked that and how telling it was.

“HYDRA has infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D., is that what you're saying?” Steve asks. He sounds accusatory, he knows this and he hates it, but this _cannot_ be happening. S.H.I.E.L.D. is _Peggy's_. She created it to protect people and that's why he has been working for them for the last two years, why he has tried to suppress the doubts that still arise from time to time regarding the organization. Because even if S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't perfect, it's still something that Peggy built, that she fought for. And Steve feels like he has to make sure the agency stays true to its founders–that their efforts weren't in vain.

“I know it's bad, Steve,” Natasha says, her voice gentler now, “but it seems likely.”

Steve is aware but... Not only is HYDRA back but they've infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. Steve has been working for them for two years, completing missions, sometimes with minimal details about what is going on. He could have been fighting innocent people; people he's supposed to be helping.

Natasha's hand reaches to touch Steve's arm but is Tony who speaks. “Steve, now it's not the moment.” His words aren't delivered with harshness. “You're not the only person who's been working for the bad guys.”

The words make Steve get out of his head and he looks at Natasha and Clint. Their expressions are neutral but Steve knows them enough—even Clint—to know that the two Avengers are just as affected as him by the news—probably more. Steve knows how Natasha got recruited and thanks to whom.

_Possible_ news, some part of Steve whispers. He’s still harboring some hope that things aren't what they seem, or that maybe only Rollins is HYDRA. He lets himself be naive for a short and very unfulfilling minute.

“Do you know where he's sending us?” Steve asks, his back straightening as if someone has suddenly pulled from a string. His hands rest on his belt.

Natasha shakes her head. She doesn't look pleased. “I'm not used to not being told anything. Fury trusted me.”

“Do you trust Pierce?” Steve asks her.

Natasha looks at him with something that could almost be identified as a smile but it doesn't convey any humor. “You know me better than that by now, Steve.”

For a second, her lips pull into a real smile and Steve feels something warm bloom behind his ribs. He remembers he's not alone in this.

“I can count the people I trust with the fingers of my hand now that Fury is dead.” Her voice catches slightly on the last word but they ignore it.

“I assume you're talking about the Avengers,” Tony says. Natasha is outright smirking now and Steve can feel the tension dissipating.

“I only know I'm one of those fingers,” Clint says, and Natasha answers with a snort.

“Okay,” Steve addresses his teammates, hands going to his hips. “We should get ready for the mission.”

“So we're really going to work with HYDRA?” Tony questions with a raised eyebrow.

“We can’t be sure,” Steve states. Even to his own ears, he doesn't sound convinced. “But we _need_ to make sure.”

Tony doesn't look away and his eyebrows are beginning to annoy Steve. “Pierce said that the mission is about finding the Winter Soldier so he doesn't know Bucky is here. We will be part of the team and we will keep an eye on the rest, see if anyone does anything suspicious.”

“Surveillance mission.” Steve nods at Clint.

Silence falls and Steve knows that the rest also need a second to absorb what they could have just discovered.

Tony is the first to speak. “Well,” he says after a sigh, stretching his arms and back. “Don't know about you but I need a coffee.”

“Make that two,” Clint chimes in.

“Three.”

They look at Steve, expecting him to join in, but he shakes his head. “I'm gonna go see Bucky; I'll explain to him what’s going on.”

“See you later, then,” Tony says, throwing a wave of his hand over his shoulder as he turns and stalks to the elevator.

Clint and Natasha don't follow the scientist immediately but follow him with their eyes, an expression that’s a mix of amusement and annoyance.

“You know what this means about Barnes, right?” Clint asks, and Steve doesn't understand why the man is looking at him like he's going to tell him that his dog just died.

“If HYDRA _did_ infiltrate S.H.I.E.L.D., then the Winter Soldier was _their asset_.” Steve's throat constricts. “We don't know for how long this has been going—maybe they've just infiltrated the agency or maybe this has been going for far longer. It could mean that a faction of S.H.I.E.L.D.—the one that's HYDRA—has been controlling the Winter Soldier.”

Steve doesn't know what to say to that. Clint must sense it or see it in his face because he regards Steve one last time with a sympathetic look and pats his shoulder. “We'll deal with it, Cap, and we will keep him safe.”

Steve feels how something unknots in his stomach. Until this moment, Steve hadn't been sure if the rest were as invested as him in Bucky's safety. Clint's words have renewed his confidence in what he's doing.

Clint leaves and Steve watches as he nears Tony.

“Life would be so easy if the God of Thunder decided to visit us more often,” Steve hears Tony say. He and Clint start talking but Steve doesn't pay them attention because he's waiting for Natasha to speak.

“I wanted to apologize.” Steve's head snaps in her direction. Her arms are still crossed but her body looks open somehow. “What I said the other day—what I _implied_ about you..." Her lips twist and her brow knits, making her look annoyed. “I trust you, Steve, I do, but there will always be a part of me that will expect the worst from people, even the ones who I care about.”

The confession catches him by surprise but he recovers swiftly. “I understand, Nat, and I accept your apology.”

Natasha smiles up at him and Steve can only give a step forward and hug her.

“So now we do this, huh?”

“Get used to it, Romanov, 'cause there is more where this came from."

Natasha snickers against Steve's shoulder but she tightens her arms around him and Steve can feel her body relaxing against him. One good thing this improved body makes possible, it’s for Steve to protect his friends the way he’d always wanted.

“I understand how it may have seemed... weird,” Steve says when they pull away. He chances a look at her expression and feels his neck flush when she smiles a wicked smirk. He doesn’t know why his face feels hot all of a sudden but Natasha’s smile is _knowing_ and he doesn’t know what it is that she’s supposed to know.

“You two looked really precious,” Natasha says with a toothy grin. Steve plunges into silence when he finally realizes what she means. He splutters for a moment and then his mouth shuts with a snap. “We’ll talk about it some other time,” Natasha says when Steve can’t utter a word. His face feels on fire.

“If you want.” Steve doesn’t know what to say so he makes a sound that starts as a snort and ends in an exasperated sigh.

“I’ll see you guys later.”

The two join Tony and Clint but Steve takes the left cabin when his teammates choose the right, going directly to the communal kitchen. The ride isn’t that long but it’s enough time for Steve to imagine ten different scenarios where things go wrong with Bucky and one where Steve doesn’t totally fuck up.

The doors slide open and Bucky is already waiting for him. Steve feels face muscles pulling at his lips. He remembers Nat’s sly smile and his face instantaneously turns into something more neutral.

“Hey, Bucky.”

“Everything okay?”

Steve steps out of the elevator, a calm expression directed at Bucky. “Yeah, don’t worry.” He sounds convincing so far. “Have you eaten anything yet?”

He heads for the kitchen and he can’t see Bucky’s expression, something that bugs him but he doesn’t want to turn—it would mean Bucky will be able to see that everything isn’t okay.

He’s almost reached the kitchen island when Bucky calls him.

“Steve.” He’s with his back to the other man but he detects the warning in his tone, bordering on alarm. Steve whirls around, one arm automatically shooting in front of Bucky when he steps by his side. Bucky doesn’t flinch, doesn’t step back. Steve can feel the exact moment Bucky’s body goes rigid, breath abruptly stopping.

Steve would turn to make sure he’s all right but he can’t look away.

“He...” Bucky sounds beyond confused. He makes a pained noise at the back of his throat.

“This is unexpected,” Fury says from where he’s sitting on Steve’s couch. He’s in his leather trench coat—just like the last time Steve saw him at S.H.I.E.L.D.—and Maria Hill is standing behind him, arms crossed and one judgmental eyebrow arched at Steve. “Wasn’t expecting to find my own killer in Avengers Tower… in _Captain America’s_ living room.”

Steve’s mouth hangs open.

“Care to explain, Rogers?” Hill says, one calm hand going to her gun. He just notices that Fury already has his gun drawn, the fist holding it propped on his knee. Steve shuffles slowly until he’s in front of Bucky who still hasn’t moved an inch. Steve can’t check on him because his eyes are monitoring the two guns pointed at them.

“I watched the CCTV recordings that got the Winter Soldier on camera the two times he tried to kill me and the time he tried to kill you and Romanov,” Fury fills Steve in when he doesn’t find words, still unable to believe what’s in front of his eyes.

“He’s not the Winter Soldier,” Steve finally makes the words come out in a croak, irked by Fury’s judging look.

“Uh-huh,” Fury drawls with an unimpressed expression.

“It’s difficult to explain. Maybe if you lowered your guns...”

“I’m sorry, Rogers, am I overreacting by pointing a gun at my own killer?” Fury’s voice has lost some of its staged coolness and the harsh tone makes Steve bristle. He gently pushes Bucky back and draws himself up to his whole height, shoulders pulled back, making Steve feel like a peacock. He feels ridiculous but those guns are still pointing at Bucky and Bucky himself doesn’t seem to be reacting appropriately to the danger.

Fury seems ready to say something else when suddenly there is a wall of metal separating Steve from him. Steve flinches back, bumping into Bucky and finally snapping the man out of his spell. Bucky’s hand grabs Steve by the torso, preventing Steve from falling on his ass.

“Wasn’t expecting to find a dead man in my tower,” Tony’s voice says from the Iron Man armor.

Steve can hear hurried steps just behind the door of his apartment, most certainly belonging to Natasha and Clint. He’s proven right a minute later when the two spies join them in the living room and Steve hears them stop abruptly on their tracks. He chances a glance in their direction: their weapons are still drawn on Fury and Hill but their expressions show unadulterated surprise. They seem to understand exactly what is going on after half a minute and Steve can see the way their faces morph into something more controlled, but not before Natasha’s face gives away a complicated emotion that Steve can only interpret as hurt.

“Now that we’re all here,” Fury addresses the room with an annoyed voice, as if someone just told him his flight got canceled, “how about we catch up on the last two months?”

“It sounds like a sensible idea to me,” Tony says. It seems he’s the only one able to speak.

Steve takes another look at Natasha and Clint and he can hear Tony’s voice saying in his mind: _“It’s like Hansel and Gretel just realized their father abandoned them in the woods.”_ His first conclusion is that he may be spending too much time with Tony; the second that Nat and Clint didn’t know all along that Fury faked his death.

“But I won’t be saying anything with _ HYDRA’s fist_ present,” Fury warns. He gets to his feet, gun still pointed at the person behind Iron Man and Steve. It’s clear to everyone in the room that Fury has a slight limp, which means that Bucky did injure him and not all of it was a well-planned ruse.

“My name is Bucky,” he says. Steve knows Bucky hasn’t moved from his position behind Steve—he feels Bucky’s hand clutch his uniform at his right side.

“Didn’t ask.”

Steve glares at Fury for a few seconds before he reminds himself that Bucky was technically the one behind the gun. He wasn’t in control of his body, nor mind but Steve understands that, right now, Fury can only see HYDRA’s Winter Soldier when he looks at Bucky.

“Lower your guns,” Tony says, his voice turned to steel. It surprises even Fury who steers his eye from Bucky for the first time since he entered the living room, and looks at the metal armor.

The Iron Man opens up and Tony steps out of it as much grace as ever—Steve notices a fresh coffee stain on Tony’s t-shirt. The armor closes and steps to the side, now the engineer being the one between Fury and Steve.

“You look good for a dead guy, Nick.”

“It wasn’t funny the first time you said it, Stark.”

“Sorry, it must be the betrayal,” Tony fires back. Steve takes advantage and gives another step back, forcing Bucky to follow suit.

“I really hope Maria is the only one who knew about this or I’ll feel really hurt.”

“I don’t have time for your jokes, Tony,” Fury huffs. He lowers his gun but Maria has stepped to his side, just enough to the left to have a clean shot of Bucky. The two are with their backs to the large windows and the sun is making it somewhat difficult to see their faces when they move.

“It’s been almost two months, Nick,” Natasha says. She’s already put her gun away and she’s holding Fury’s gaze. Not one muscle on her face twitches but her eyes are giving enough away. There is hurt in them, not only one caused because Fury didn’t trust her, but one caused by the time she spent believing he was dead.

“We actually mourned you, boss, for two months.” It almost sounds like a joke when Clint says it but his tone is far from amused.

“I’m sorry I didn’t take into account your feelings when I was forced to fake my death, agent Barton.”

“Ouch,” Tony says.

Fury fulminates him with a look. A second later he seems to deflate and Steve finally notices the man’s tiredness. Fury runs a hand over his face and looks at Steve and his teammates.

“I’m trusting you now.”

“Because you need our help,” Natasha states with conviction before Fury has finished the sentence.

“I think you will enjoy kicking some HYDRA ass,” Fury says with something that’s almost a smirk.

“That’s not exactly the point,” Clint is the one to say. He’s put down his bow, too.

Steve feels like Natasha and Clint deserve to have a private conversation with their former employer but he doesn’t like the idea of letting Fury and Hill out of his sight.

“I think we can now get to that catching up you mentioned earlier,” Tony tries to deescalate the situation and Steve is grateful because he isn’t feeling cooperative at the moment.

Fury looks at Tony with little amusement and then at the rest of the Avengers. He exchanges a significant look with Hill who only gives him a little nod.

“We can talk when he isn’t present,” Fury states. Steve was already expecting that demand. He gives the two of them a curt nod and proceeds to take Bucky by the arm and get him away from Hill’s gun.

Steve places his hands on Bucky’s shoulders, trying to get his attention away from Fury. “Buck,” Steve says when Bucky keeps looking over Steve’s shoulder with an expression that’s turned pained.

“I shot him.” His voice is almost trance-like, his jaw slack.

“I know, Bucky, but…” Bucky doesn’t look at him, as if he isn’t aware of anyone else but Fury.

“I failed,” he’s saying. “I failed a mission.” Bucky’s expression morphs into horror, his jaw clenching tightly and Steve expects any moment now to hear a tooth snap. Bucky’s eyes are wide open but they seem lost.

“There are no missions anymore, Buck.” He shuffles to the left so he can block Fury from Bucky’s camp of vision. Bucky’s eyes finally focus on Steve, still wide open. “You with me, pal?”

Bucky nods, a pained frown still creasing his forehead. Steve’s hand flies to Bucky’s neck for a short second and then it slides back to his shoulder. Bucky’s hand follows Steve’s and he holds onto his wrist, his whole attention on Steve.

Bucky’s grey eyes take Steve’s words away and he knows exactly what Natasha’s knowing look from before meant—he knows it without any doubt and the realization makes his heart skip a beat and then come back with twice the speed.

“I came here meaning to tell you something.” Having Bucky’s whole attention is a little intimidating. Steve doesn’t know if he’s noticing for the first time or if before he just didn’t know what the reason was. “Plans are probably going to change after we speak with Fury but one way or another I’m going to be away.”

“How long?”

“No idea.”

Bucky’s posture changes. He unfolds, back pulling straight, shoulders squaring. He tilts to the side to look behind Steve, his expression of apprehension giving way to one of resolve so sudden it gives Steve whiplash. “What did you have to tell me?”

Steve’s hand slips from Bucky’s shoulder the moment the words exit his mouth. His voice… the inflection sounds _wrong_. Steve never heard Bucky’s voice while he was the Winter Soldier but he has no doubt this is how he would have sounded. Bucky’s voice is like a flat line, that’s the only way Steve can describe it.

He must have stared for too long because the weight of Bucky’s hand on his shoulder is what snaps him out of his state of engrossment. “Steve?”

“Sorry, I was…” There’s no way to explain what he was thinking without sounding absurd. “Doesn’t matter. Pierce came, the guy that’s my boss right now.” He takes a few more steps in the direction of the hallway that leads to their bedrooms. Bucky stops following when they’re about to turn the corner and Steve thinks it better not to insist.

“He assigned us a mission.” Steve wants to wring his hands or maybe run them through his hair but he does none of it. “He basically said we have to find you. Well, not you,” he hurries to correct himself even though Bucky doesn’t seem affected by Steve’s wording. “The Winter Soldier, the guy they believe is willingly helping HYDRA.”

Bucky doesn’t show hints of concern and Steve chooses to believe it’s because Bucky already knows Steve wouldn’t just hand him over.

“What are you going to do?” Bucky shatters Steve’s wishful thinking. He’s still not letting any emotions to filter through and Steve is starting to feel the need to pace.

“I told them you’re in the tower and sent them on a scavenger hunt,” Steve snaps before he can think twice. The only thing that changes on Bucky’s face is his left eyebrow arching. Steve huffs, more annoyed at himself than anything else.

“Jesus, Buck, I said ‘yes, Sir, I’ll be ready in a few hours, we’ll get that bastard.’” He shuffles a few inches closer, his hand finding Bucky’s arm again. He lets go when he feels the muscles tense under his palm. “I wouldn’t tell them you’re here, especially without consulting you first.”

Steve lets a long second pass, giving Bucky an opportunity to add something, anything. He doesn’t, but Steve can see that he’s paying attention, absorbing all the information.

“We think HYDRA has infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. and we were going to keep an eye on everyone during the mission, see if anything was amiss.” Saying the words out loud makes his stomach twist.

“I guess he’s here to confirm your suspicions,” Bucky says, this time his voice sounding gruff—it makes Steve think of a rock with jagged edges.

Steve twists his neck to look at Fury. “What do you mean?”

“I was sent to kill him,” Bucky starts explaining in a matter-of-fact voice, one that doesn’t resemble the hollow one from before, for which Steve is grateful, “and he took advantage of the situation to fake his death. Didn’t tell anyone else for two months and now he’s here for your help.”

“Makes sense.” But he doesn’t want it to. If S.H.I.E.L.D. has indeed been infiltrated then Steve knows what has to be done with the agency.

“Shit,” he says under his breath after the realization. Steve runs his hands over his face, feeling tired and light-headed just by thinking what expects him outside of the tower.

“Steve.” Bucky holds his wrist, stopping Steve from tugging at his hair. “Take me with you.”

Steve can only stare at him, arms falling at his sides. He tries to decipher the words but he comes up short. “What?”

“You know I can fight,” Bucky speaks again with that practical tone that isn’t quite the Winter Soldier but Steve can now tell that it could turn into it if Bucky was pushed in the right direction.

“I can be of use.” Steve worries he can push him in that direction.

“Yeah but…” Steve’s hand cups Bucky’s neck again and he realizes this only once he’s feeling the cool, clammy skin. Steve searches Bucky’s face for any signs of discomfort but he finds none. Bucky is still looking him firmly in the eye and Steve feels emboldened. It’s ridiculous the way his heart jumps inside his chest when his other hand finds Bucky’s neck to mirror his other one.

Steve gets lost in Bucky’s beard when his thumb runs over his jaw. The sunrise hitting his face lets Steve appreciate the sparse gray hairs. Steve wonders how much time Bucky has spent without the sun heating his skin. Steve wonders if Bucky used to sunbathe at the beach in summer before the war. He deserves to have the chance to do it.

“I don’t think that’s what you want.”

“What?” now is Bucky’s turn to ask. This time Steve gives in and smooths Bucky’s frown with a thumb—it causes Bucky’s eyes to widen gently.

“I don’t think you want to fight anymore,” Steve says with a gentle tone.

Steve had already realized this but he hadn’t really let himself think about it. It had been obvious enough when Bucky hadn’t reacted on the multiple occasions Steve threatened him. Bucky hadn’t moved a muscle when Steve had pushed him against a wall and then proceeded to threaten and intimidate him; he hadn’t tried to hurt anyone in the operating room as much as he had tried to protect himself from unknown threats. And even then, Bucky had trusted Steve to some degree to not let anyone cause him more harm.

Bucky had shown his trust as far as letting Steve take care of him when he was most vulnerable. Steve wonders if the real reason behind Bucky’s actions was that he didn’t have anything to lose.

Bucky looks at Steve with serene eyes but Steve sees the corners of his lips work before he finally says, “I don’t.” It sounds like a revelation.

“And I don’t want to force you.”

“I can watch your six.” Bucky makes it sounds like it’s not a proposition but a choice he has already made. Steve still hears the little waver in his voice.

“I won’t be going alone, Buck,” Steve assures him with a half-smile. His hands slither to his shoulders again and he squeezes gently. “I’ll have my team with me.”

“You better,” Bucky snaps and adds a glare to the mix. Steve can’t find it in himself to be upset because Bucky isn’t pulling away and Steve feels there is someone to come back to. “If you don’t come back, Steve…”

“What?” Steve prompts with a smirk.

“I will have to go find you.”

The smile slips from Steve’s lips when he realizes what that would entail.

“No more fighting for you, buddy,” Steve promises, his voice unyielding.

Bucky spends a moment scrutinizing him in one of his moments of silence. In the end, he only nods but doesn’t pull away. Steve gives in to another one of his impulses and rests his forehead against Bucky’s. Steve hears him sigh and then Bucky’s hand is slipping around Steve’s shoulders and the two of them are embracing in a tight hug.

“Be careful,” Bucky murmurs near his ear.

They pull apart, slowly, and Steve takes a moment to memorize Bucky’s features.

“Have you eaten anything?” Steve asks when he gives half a step back—he feels calm, covered by a blanket of serenity and resolution. Bucky nods and Steve can’t help but smile. Steve would love to talk about what Bucky has eaten, if he liked it, if it made him feel ill, what food he wants to try next… It’s just not something his life lets him have.

“Sorry you have to go to your room like a kid,” Steve says with an annoyed expression, trying not to glare over his shoulder. “I’ll tell you everything later.”

Bucky nods without complaint. Steve wants to stay.

“You know what?” Steve suddenly says. He takes a quick look over his shoulder. “We’re holding the meeting in any place but my apartment.” Steve raises his voice to be heard but he deliberately looks only at Bucky when he speaks. Steve doesn’t care what the others have to say; Bucky’s not going to be treated as a prisoner and Steve is not going to act as his handler—not Steve, not anybody else.

They don’t move away immediately. Steve just doesn’t want to, but also because he can see something in Bucky’s face that makes him falter. Bucky is looking him up and down and he seems to want to add something. Then he looks over Steve’s shoulder and his expression turns inscrutable.

“I’ll see you later.”

Steve assents in confirmation. He watches Bucky turn the corner and then releases a heavy breath of air through his nose. Before turning to face Fury and Hill, Steve steels himself. There’s going to be a lot to unpack and he has to be prepared for anything.

What he finds in his living room when he turns to face Fury isn’t what he was picturing, though, and Steve’s face quickly mirrors Fury and Hill’s expressions of confusion.

“That was… weird, to say the least.” Now is Steve’s turn to arch an eyebrow, waiting for clarification. Fury’s forehead is creased with what can only be confusion. His eye is still squinting at the spot occupied by Bucky just a second ago—until it isn’t and the whole force of his distrust is directed at Steve.

“That’s called fraternizing with the enemy, Captain,” Hill says. Steve grinds his teeth, stopping himself from lashing out. Intellectually, Steve knows Fury and Hill are bound to mistrust Bucky and they have the right—knowing it isn’t enough to stop him from wanting to snap and bare his teeth at anyone who mentions Bucky.

“Look, we too want to know what’s going on between Captain America and Manchurian Candidate, but now it’s not the time,” Tony cuts in. Natasha snorts and Steve catches Clint’s eyes widening, after which he proceeds to manipulate his hearing aids with a frown.

“What?” Steve asks dumbly with a strangled voice, nearly chocking on his own spit.

“I said now it’s not the time, Steve.” Tony waves a dismissive hand in Steve’s direction.

Steve looks at Tony, neck turning hot and he doesn’t know what to do to stop it from spreading over his face and chest.

“Let’s start with the debrief,” Natasha takes pity on him. She grabs his arm and drags him away from the hallway. They follow Tony when he heads to the elevator.

There’s a weight that lifts from his shoulders with each step they take to exit his apartment. Having Fury and Hill leave his living room and not Bucky isn’t only because Bucky deserves the right to be treated with respect as any other person, but also because he doesn’t want Bucky being a door away from people that threaten his life. Right now, Steve wants Fury and Hill as far away from Bucky as possible.

“Wait, what is going on between Cap and Barnes?” Clint says when the doors close and the cabin starts its swift descend. They’re six people in an enclosed space but Clint doesn’t seem to notice everyone else’s stares on him, some with exasperation in their eyes and other with disbelief.

Natasha breaks the charged silence with a belly laugh. She slaps Clint’s arm and then leans on him for a brief moment. “Don’t change, Clint.”

Steve catches Clint’s impish smirk when he smiles down at Natasha.

“Jesus,” Steve hears Fury mutter at the back of the elevator, followed by Tony’s amused snort. “I should‘ve gone to May’s apartment.”

“Melinda?” Clint chimes in, still acting oblivious to the eye glaring at the back of his skull—Steve stifles a laugh and exchanges a look with Natasha. “How is she?”

As expected, Fury doesn’t answer. Steve catches Hill’s lips ticking up and a second later it’s like he’s imagined it.

“This is going to be an interesting debriefing,” he comments when the elevator opens and they trickle out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not 100% sure but I think this is the chapter I was going to write and post after ch 10. I wrote the first 1500 words and then stopped, revisited the story and realized there needed to be more of Steve and Bucky interacting. I’m really glad I realized this soon enough.
> 
> Make me happy during these trying times by dropping a comment! I’ve missed you!
> 
> Hope you're all okay.


	22. Chapter 21 Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve split this chapter in two parts bc two months w/ no new content is just too long. Sorry!

Bucky waits for the sound of the elevator leaving before he can finally sag against the door of his bedroom, muscles still tense. He appreciates Steve getting Nick Fury away from the apartment but it still isn't enough to make Bucky feel... Bucky doesn’t know what would be the correct word to define his senses right now or his emotions. It's like he’s in the eye of a hurricane and knows things will get ugly in a matter of time. His muscles are like taunt rope; he can hear his breath and tries to control it; his eyes dash over every corner even though he knows there is nothing dangerous in the room, but still his eyes won’t stop darting from the bed to the shelves to the windows...

Bucky’s stump starts burning and that’s enough to make his breathing sharp and rapid again. His chest rises and falls erratically while he tries to understand what is happening. Did someone poison him? His heart beats against his chest and his throat feels like it just caught on fire. Bucky drags his knees to his chest and rests his forehead on them.

_I think he’s glitching._

His head snaps up but he’s still alone in the room; he knows this even when the edges of his vision blur, turn dark.

_Shit, you think we broke him?_ Bucky takes another look, searching for the owner of the amused voice. _No one._ The edges of his vision close on him and his chest feels like there is a candle burning under his shirt.

_One more time on the Chair and what we'll have to wipe is his drool._

_You’re the worst, Evelyn,_ Bucky hears the female voice clear as if she’s less than a foot from him. He covers his right ear with his hand and presses the left ear to his knee. He hears the two women laugh and his skin ripples.

_I wouldn’t mind wiping some other stuff,_ says the same voice.

_Damn, Karin, I don’t think he can even get it up._

“Shut up,” the words exit his mouth even with his painfully clenched jaw. But he hears the laughs that follow and they keep talking. About him. Like he hadn’t been in front of them. He had been covered in blood, with three broken fingers, three bruised ribs, one broken cheekbone, and somehow he had ended with the hook of a fishing rod stuck on his back. He had finished his mission which meant he wasn’t to be meddled with so they only joked and didn’t wander too near to his corner.

Bucky’s hand threads through his hair and he pulls—he feels the pain just fleetingly, at least until a new voice speaks in his ear.

_How long do you think he can stand like that?_

Bucky thumps his forehead against his knees.

_You want to bet on it?_

_I want you to know you have a problem. Last week you bet on how long it would take you to take a dump, Alex._

Bucky remembers that the left corner of his mouth had ticked up. He had felt like he was almost part of something.

_Hmm. How about if we make him keep one leg on the air?_

The back of Bucky’s head connects with the door behind him but he doesn’t feel the hit.

_I’m not getting close to that until Pierce is here._

Bucky tries to get words through his lips but instead a whimper bubbles out—doesn't even sound human.

Bucky’s lightheaded when he hears his name being called. His vision is blurry when he comes to it and finds himself backed into a corner. His mouth is dry and his eyelids feel heavy and irritated. He lifts his head from his knees and looks around, brain sluggish.

“Bucky?” There’s a light knock on the door. “You in there?”

He tries to speak but his voice is too gruff and no intelligible words come from his throat. There’s a short silence. “Can I come in?” Steve’s tone sounds too flat for it to be natural.

Bucky shouldn’t let Steve see him like this... this... mess—not anymore. He realizes he’s shaking at the same time as he touches his cheek and feels dampness. He tries to make the words come out but they just won’t. He tries to move from the floor but his muscles won’t unlock.

Another minute passes and when Bucky thinks Steve must be about to leave, the knob turns and the door starts opening inch by slow inch. Bucky looks up as Steve appears, still in his uniform as he quickly sweeps the room until he spots Bucky. Steve’s face falls and he gives a tentative step towards Bucky after closing the door. His hand is outstretched but he freezes on his feet. He looks closely at Bucky and he must find whatever he’s looking for because the next second he’s kneeling before him.

“What do you need me to do?”

A pained sound is punched out of Bucky and he turns his head away when his lips tremble.

_What is happening to me?_

Where has all his training gone, all his control? He’s turned into a shaking mess, unable to get to his feet, unable to answer when he’s asked to.

_I need the Chair,_ a frantic and scared part of him thinks. What if this gets worse? Everyone has their limit and Steve must be reaching his. Bucky can imagine it, Steve getting fed up with taking care of a man like he’s a child.

“You have to put me on the Chair,” Bucky finally gets the words out, sounding breathy.

He doesn’t see the Steve before him because he’s still focused on the one from his imagination, staring at Bucky the same way so many HYDRA agents stared at the Soldier when they had to feed him or hose him down, or cut his hair, something most of the time done while he was unconscious. That’s why it comes like a shock when he feels something encase his head. Bucky freezes, thinking it’s the Chair; they’re finally going to fix him. Bucky keeps his eyes tightly shut, waiting for the wave of pain, and doesn’t dare breathe.

“Buck.”

He keeps his eyes closed and his body clenched as if one single muscle. But pain doesn’t come—there's still something touching his face but there is no pain.

Something brushes his cheekbone and Bucky blinks his eyes open. He finds a pair of concerned blue eyes looking closely at him, brows pulled together and wrinkles of preoccupation adorning his face.

“You with me, pal?”

Bucky prods his brain to remember where he is, _who_ he is. It takes him less time to remember who Steve is and his heart jumps inside his chest after the realization, a different kind of panic taking over him.

Steve’s hands are nothing like a vice. They’re not cold, they’re not ungiving. They’re not made of metal and they don’t erase him from his own mind. Steve’s fingers are gentle, almost feather-like when they touch his neck; when his thumb brushes his jaw and cheek. Bucky’s muscles gradually unclench and he’s able to breathe without fright. He leans into the touch like a flower reaching out for the sunlight.

HYDRA has never done it so he cannot be sure, but Bucky has the feeling that this must be what positive reinforcement _really_ feels like—getting rewarded for your behavior. Bucky reminds himself he’s not with HYDRA and he isn’t getting rewarded for anything. Part of him points out how he hasn’t done anything to deserve the positive reinforcement, especially not Steve’s brand.

Steve’s hands remain kind even when Bucky’s thoughts turn sharp against him. He hears Steve droning on about where they are, who he is, that Bucky’s safe. Bucky lets Steve talk, his voice doing more for Bucky’s nerves than the meaning of the words.

“Let’s get you off the floor,” Steve says but doesn’t move until Bucky nods his consent. Steve gets an arm under Bucky’s shoulder and lifts him up. He helps Bucky to the bed with slow steps and lowers him with extreme care. Bucky wants to thank him but shame clogs his throat. He peeks at Steve through his hair but only finds the concern from a moment ago.

“How are you feeling?” Steve asks after he sits on his right. There’s too much space between them and Bucky’s body chooses that moment to remind him how cold he is. A shiver runs through him. Bucky almost jumps when Steve gets an arm around his shoulders and slides until their sides are flush together. He lets out a sigh.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah, sorry about... that,” Bucky says morosely but Steve only shakes his head.

“I only care that you’re feeling better now.”

Bucky lets out an irritated breath. He’s better equipped to deal with people who don’t care about him so right now Steve is making things more difficult for him even when he means the opposite. Luckily, Steve doesn’t comment on the outburst and just lets Bucky lean on him. Bucky’s head ends up slipping to Steve’s shoulder after a few minutes but he doesn’t pull away and Bucky feels like it’s a safe place to be. The material of Steve’s uniform is coarse but it’s not enough reason for Bucky to pull away.

“We’ll be leaving in less than an hour,” Steve says and it’s then that Bucky notices voices behind the door. Steve must feel him tensing up again because his arm tightens around him and his hand brushes carefully his shoulder. “J.A.R.V.I.S. can tell them to leave.”

That would be perfect, Bucky thinks, to get rid of what his brain is identifying as a threat right now.

“No.” But he doesn’t believe that to be the best solution, especially if it will show him as weak. He sits up but doesn’t pull away from Steve. Bucky looks at the door, face muscles pulling into something resembling resolve. His skin is vibrating and his legs feel like jelly but he can fake a lot more with far less.

Steve seems to already know what is it that Bucky’s brain is going through and he’s helping him to his feet before Bucky has said anything.

“Have you eaten?”

“No,” Bucky answers before opening the door, his voice still gruff. He looks down at the doorknob; Steve doesn’t rush him. Bucky runs a palm over his face, skin feeling irritated, and opens the door before he can overthink the possible outcomes. The bright light gives him pause and it’s then that he realizes that J.A.R.V.I.S. must have slightly dimmed the windows in his room when he was in the process of turning a bit crazier.

Steve’s teammates are in their uniforms as well and they stop their whispered conversations when they see Bucky and Steve turn the corner. Tony Stark gives a wave of his armored hand, his face sporting a grin, and the other two acknowledge Bucky with a nod and a word of greeting.

_(If they really knew what I’ve done—)_

(Bucky’s eyes stray from Tony Stark.)

Bucky feels his senses sharpen when he sees them but it’s nothing like the feeling he gets when he sees Nick Fury and the woman by his side—it’s his whole body is being whipped by an electric current. The two look at Bucky like they’re seeing him for the first time; considering but still mistrustful.

“We tried to explain the situation as best as we could,” Steve says in his ear, one hand touching lightly his elbow. “But they’re still being… cautious.”

“I guess it comes with the job.” Bucky himself is wary of them; not only because they see him as an enemy and a danger but because there’s still a part of Bucky that sees Nick Fury as an enemy of HYDRA.

“Anyone hungry?” Steve asks, heading for the kitchen as if the atmosphere isn’t tense enough to be cut with a blunt knife.

“Oh!” Stark exclaims as his metal armor opens up and he shoots for the kitchen. “Pepper said to eat something or J.A.R.V.I.S. wouldn’t let me leave the Tower.”

Bucky had followed Steve closely and that’s why Stark gets to see his eyes widen.

“What is it, Terminator?” Stark asks while he chews and rummages through a cupboard, looking Bucky over.

“Tony,” Steve grumbles but he turns to Bucky, too, eyebrows pulled down.

“Didn’t you make J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Bucky asks in a voice too small and filled with uncertainty.

“Yes,” Stark answers with a tone that lets Bucky know he doesn’t understand where Bucky is going to with that question.

“He was joking, Buck,” Steve says, giving a step closer and leaving the fridge open behind him. “Pepper’s his… partner.” Stark snorts but doesn’t interrupt Steve’s hurried explanation. “She wants him to take care of himself,” Bucky sees Stark’s face flush at the words, “and she threatens him but it’s… like a joke.”

Bucky lifts a brow at that. He remembers a HYDRA agent that would threaten with shooting the Soldier if he dared get near him, even though the agent knew no one was to damage the Winter Soldier. Bucky has the feeling it’s not the same with Stark and this Pepper lady.

“If you will let me clarify, sirs,” J.A.R.V.I.S. says and Bucky feels a faint smile pull at the corners of his mouth. “Mr. Stark is my creator and thus he can override any of Ms. Potts’ commands if he really wants to. That said, I won’t let the Iron Man amour out of the Tower unless Mr. Stark is well fed.” Bucky believes he’s about to witness a case of spontaneous human combustion. “Or he remembers Ms. Potts’ override code.”

Stark snorts derisively. He’s just opened his mouth when a female voice cuts him off. “I’m recording this audio file because I know you will forget you changed the override code, Tony. It’s my dad’s birthday. I’m also reminding you it was _your_ idea because you wanted to prove you could remember it. Love you, Tony. Eat something and J.A.R.V.I.S. will let you play out. _Do not_ call me, Tony, I have too much work.”

The recording ends and Bucky hears Clint Barton murmur, “That one is always true no matter when you listen to the audio.”

The silence stretches until it borders on awkward.

“I’m divorcing her,” Stark grumbles.

“You’re not married,” the Widow says after a snort.

“I don’t care, I will marry her just to get a divorce,” Stark continues with feeling and Bucky catches Fury rolling his eye.

“You’re not fooling anyone,” Barton says with a smile.

Steve puts a hand on Stark’s shoulder and sits him on one of the chairs at the table. “Just eat, Tony, we have time,” Steve says, almost chiding but with a fond smile. “I’ll make you something.”

The four Avengers suddenly fall in complete synchrony as Barton takes a seat at the table in front of Stark while the Widow joins Steve at the stove. He passes her ingredients and she puts them on the counter. Neither of them pay any attention to Fury and the woman who is with him, Maria. Bucky takes a step back, feeling like he’s intruding.

He doesn’t have time to take another step before Barton is looking right at him.

“Hey, man, take a seat.” He gestures with a hand for Bucky to get to the table. Bucky falters but he sits by Stark’s side so as not to turn his back to Fury and Maria. He still feels like ants are crawling all over his skin and there’s a tingling sensation at the back of his skull, like he’s being watched through the scope of a rifle. Still, Bucky believes it would’ve been worse if Steve hadn’t appeared.

He listens to the Avengers chat while Steve and the Widow cook. They’re deliberately acting like Fury and Maria aren’t present and Bucky sees Fury roll his eye again when he too realizes this. The woman’s expression doesn’t change but she heads for the table, too. Just when she’s about to take the seat in front of Bucky, Barton swiftly slides into it. Maria huffs but sits on the vacated chair while Barton acts like nothing has happened and Stark’s shoulders shake with contained laughter.

Bucky looks at Barton and when he catches the man’s eye, he can only give a little nod of gratitude with a stiff neck—he wishes to do something more. Barton gives a slight smile making Bucky’s stomach settle and his hand unclench from the fist it had turned into.

He sits with his shoulders turned into one tense line and listens to Steve and Natasha converse—they’ve just come from visiting Sam Wilson. Nick Fury doesn’t speak but he keeps a close eye on Bucky, arms crossed and shoulder leaning against the wall. Bucky regards him and the woman with the same distrust.

A bowl of soup is placed in front of him and Bucky finally looks away and up to see Steve giving him an easy smile. Stark gets up from his seat by Bucky’s right and it’s replaced by Steve. He catches Maria arching a brow but the Avengers act as if nothing unusual has happened. Stark takes his plate of eggs and toast and eats on his feet while the Widow sits at the head of the table, having a perfect view of Nick Fury. Bucky can see the tension between those two and it’s making him feel on edge—more so—not knowing what can happen between them.

Bucky’s train of thought is derailed when a hand lands on his thigh, just over his knee. He looks in confusion at Steve who is giving him a faint smile. Steve must see something in Bucky’s face because his smile falls and his fingers tense. He’s about to remove his hand when Bucky covers it with his own. Steve’s smile returns, broad and bright, and he turns his hand to entwine their fingers. Bucky looks at their hands in wonder—Steve’s palm is so warm, just like his smile, like his words when he directs them at Bucky…

Bucky feels a wave of chills run over him, rapidly replaced by warmth. He lifts his head to see if anyone has noticed what Steve is doing and what the action has done to Bucky. No one is paying them any attention, still eating and chatting. Bucky’s eyes get dragged to their hands once again and he doesn’t know how long he spends frozen like that, just marveling at the image of Steve holding him even if in such a small way.

“Oh, sorry,” Steve says and suddenly Bucky’s hand is cold again. Bucky would prefer not to eat if it will mean holding Steve’s hand again. Either way, he takes the spoon and tries not to shiver when Steve’s fingers return to his leg. Bucky looks through his strands of hair, making sure once again that no one is looking at them, no one is misinterpreting Steve’s touch for something that it’s not. Maybe Bucky should warn Steve about what people do to people like Bucky and that Steve ought to be more careful.

But there are too many ears here that could hear. So he eats a soup that this morning tastes of Steve’s touch and a fast-beating and guilty heart.

They all finish their breakfast but no one moves from the kitchen area. The Avengers keep talking, Nick Fury and Maria have their attention on their phones, and Bucky stays still and attentive; to the hand on his leg, to the shadows in the room shifting as the sun rises, to being part of whatever this is.

Some more time passes and Nick Fury finally moves from his corner. “We gotta leave.”

Barton and the Widow get up without a word and get to the door that leads to the elevator. Tony groans so everyone will know he doesn’t feel like accompanying them. Steve is the last to follow. He drags his hands to his lap, eyes distant but for once there isn’t a frown marring his face. Bucky observes him for a minute but Steve seems to have sunk deep in thought.

Bucky can see Fury’s frustration and knows he’s about to snap. He gets up and Steve finally looks up and follows suit with a faint smile.

“You going to need help with the shoulder?” Steve asks in a low tone, only for Bucky to hear. There’s enough space between the two of them and the rest so they won’t be overheard. Bucky almost smirks at Fury’s expression of annoyance. “Also, we’ll have to go to the medic wing soon so they can get your stitches removed.”

“Don’t worry,” he says with the same tone. Bucky catches some furtive anxiety in Steve’s words. “I’ll ask J.A.R.V.I.S. to call Dum-E if I need help with the bandages. And we’ll go when you’re back,” he hurries to add when Steve opens his mouth. . Bucky feels his mouth go dry when he remembers the medic wing; he knows he won’t be able to go there without turning catatonic—especially if he goes alone. 

Steve nods but doesn’t move. He looks at Bucky’s face with an absent expression.

“Steve?”

Steve blinks his eyes. “Sorry, I—” He makes a pause and runs a hand over his stubble, but then his face gives way to a genuine smile that borders on bashful. It leaves Bucky feeling unsteady. “I just _really_ don’t want to leave, you know?”

Bucky doesn’t know why Steve keeps looking at him like that, why he’s smiling at him, eyes crinkling at the corners and skin turning pink.

Bucky sees Steve’s hands move but he feels rooted to the spot. Steve holds his face between his gloved palms, and still with that one smile that rivals sunlight itself he presses his lips to Bucky’s cheek. It’s gentle, it’s slow, it’s warm. Then Steve pulls away and looks at Bucky with a serene expression while Bucky can only stare wide-eyed. He glances behind Steve, insides frozen with dread.

“Steve…” He swallows.

Steve’s hands are holding Bucky’s shoulders now and he waits for Bucky to speak. But he can’t because _everyone saw._ Bucky can’t even stop and think about what this means for him—that maybe Steve reciprocates his feelings—because all these people just saw what Steve did.

An old, almost ancient fear is gripping Bucky and doesn’t let him think with clarity. He tries to reason that Steve isn’t a normal human being, that he can bend metal with his own hands; hurting him won’t be easy, maybe not even permanent. But Bucky’s fear brings forward a memory that eclipses any logic.

He remembers Dustin O’Halloran’s face—before and after he was beaten to death in 1932. He remembers Nina and Lisa and how everyone stopped talking about them after their husbands found out about their affair but no one saw the two women again. He remembers when Arnold Roth and Tommy Glover had to leave the neighborhood when they couldn’t walk down the street without receiving some kind of threat. His ma had let the two young men sleep in their living room when someone threatened to burn their house with the two of them inside the day before they moved out.

There are more names and right now Bucky’s fried brain fears Steve turning into one of them.

He doesn’t have time to say or do anything when Steve is saying, “Wait here a sec,” and brushing past him.

He chances another glance at the group of people. Barton and Stark are whispering with faces as excited as the ones of kids on Christmas morning; the Widow is… smiling, oddly enough; Fury seems annoyed, about to burst a vain; and Maria is looking at Steve’s retreating for with an arched brow. Bucky isn’t finding any of the emotions he was expecting but that’s not enough to put a stop to the cold sweat rolling down his back.

“I want you to have this,” Steve says and Bucky refocuses his sense on the blonde man’s face. It works because he doesn’t even realize that Steve’s holding something for him. Bucky takes the dog tags and traces the name and numbers with his thumb. His mind is suddenly emptied of all the turmoil from seconds before.

“Is it stupid?” Steve asks with a short laugh but the self-doubt is there for everyone to see. Bucky looks at him in wonder, palm closing around the tags. “No,” he rasps.

“I’m not leaving you, Buck; I want you to know that.” Steve’s smile has been replaced with that earnestness that used to confuse Bucky. Right now it makes his back straighten and the fog of fear clears.

“I know, Steve.”

“I’m not leaving you and I don’t want to.” Steve stares at him like he wants Bucky to understand something that lies beyond his words. Bucky thinks he understands. He gives a nod, the fist inside where the tags are, pressed against his chest.

It all ends with a hug and when they separate Bucky can see in Steve’s face that he wants to stay—with Bucky.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Bucky warns. Steve opens his mouth to say something but seems to think twice about it.

“I’m coming back whole.” It sounds like a promise; one Bucky’s going to cling to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll be starting classes next week and things at work are pretty crazy right now so I don’t know when the next update will be but maybe comments will give me the energy I need to write part 2 faster *wink wink*


	23. Chapter 21 Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger Warning:** discussion of PTSD and complex PTSD, and explicit violence. Be careful.
> 
> I wanted to post this chapter now (just when I finished it. I didn’t even proof-read it the 10 times I usually do) because I’m starting classes this week and I don’t know when I’ll have time to sit down and write.

Once everyone has left, once Bucky has heard the jet leave, and once he’s taken his sweet time to clean the kitchen, Bucky sits on the couch and sinks into the silence of the apartment. He gets the dog tags out of the pocket of his pants and stares at them until he loses track of time.

No mission, Bucky reminds himself as he hangs the tags around his neck and slides them under his t-shirt and sweater. There’s no target, no debriefing before or after. No weapons are handed by Katy who will complain to Tom about how her son hasn’t let her sleep all night. Katy who will morph into Pete after a wipe who will then turn into Aziz, into Talia into Sofia into Luca into—

Bucky lets out a controlled breath, his fingers rubbing Steve’s name imprinted in the thin metal disc. “J.A.R.V.I.S., where can I find a computer—a laptop, that is?”

“Would you mind if Dum-E came to deliver one only for you, Mr. Barnes?”

“I wouldn’t mind, no.” Bucky can’t help but smile at the mention of the robot.

To Bucky, these last few days have been like an awakening—a real one, nothing like thawing after cryo. This past week has been like opening his eyes, sitting up on the bed, stretching his arm over his head... It’s been slow and it’s been hard, and there are times when he believes his brain is really glitching, but he’s had the opportunity to let his muscles stretch and his mind work without being punished for it—for taking his time.

But Bucky breathes and he reminds himself he’s not just passing through time, not anymore; tomorrow he won’t wake up another 70 years in the future. He’s safe and he’s making memories and keeping them. Tomorrow, when he wakes up he will still remember his ma and his little sister, he will remember Steve and he will remember Howard Stark.

The elevator chimes and Dum-E shoots out of it with a laptop carefully balanced in its claw. The bot offers it to Bucky and he accepts it with a thank you and a smile, and then the bot is gone again.

“Why are you called J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Bucky asks without giving it much thought as he turns on the laptop.

“Just Another Rather Very Intelligent System,” the A.I. says. Bucky smirks at the answer. “But the real reason is because of the human Jarvis that took care of Mr. Stark when he was a child.”

Bucky hums, shifting on the cushion. The moment will come when Bucky will have to tell what actually happened to Tony Stark’s parents and who did it. It most certainly will mean that Bucky will find himself kicked out of the Tower but it may be better than his insides turning every time he sees Howard’s son.

“Stark built an Artificial Intelligence because he needed a butler,” Bucky comments with amusement.

“Simply put, yes.” Bucky snorts at the A.I.’s words and tone; it’s subtle but he can swear that J.A.R.V.I.S. is being sarcastic. J.A.R.V.I.S. may not be a physical presence but Bucky doesn’t feel alone right now.

Bucky stares at the search box. The tiny magnifying glass stares back and waits for him to write. He has no clue what he will find, but Bucky types “shell shock” into the bar and presses enter, his father’s face flashing before his eyes. “About 99,000,000 results” pop up in the screen and Bucky’s grateful there are no images, something he hadn’t even thought about.

_“Shell shock is a term originally coined in 1915 by Charles Myers to describe soldiers who were involuntarily shivering, crying, fearful, and had constant intrusions of memory. It is not a term used in psychiatric practice today but remains in everyday use.”_

Bucky’s started trembling and he would laugh at his body’s reaction if nausea wasn’t creeping up his throat. His hand searches for the metal around his neck, still cold just like his skin. It must have been warm every time it hung around Steve’s neck.

Bucky keeps scrolling, reading the titles of the rest of web pages. Once again, he’s reminded that he’s traveled to the future—_pushed_, he was pushed into it. Bucky had expected to be forced to ask for J.A.R.V.I.S.’ help to find information but it seems “shell shock” has turned into ‘post-traumatic stress disorder’ and there are thousands of studies in the public domain for people to find when needed. Dear God, Bucky even finds _tests!_

“Sir, are you feeling all right?” J.A.R.V.I.S. asks when Bucky stares at the screen for a couple of minutes; his fingers thread through his hair and his uneven breaths fill the room.

“Yeah,” Bucky exhales. He leans back on the couch. “Just… just a little overwhelmed.”

Bucky doesn’t doubt Steve’s intentions to help him, not anymore, but to know that he can find a way and learn to take care of himself… It’s something hard to believe when you’ve spent most of your life being treated like something sub-human, handed from one blurry face to the next one. Bucky finds it hard to believe even when he has proof before his eyes. There are people discussing the subject, he finds out when he scrolls down the web, thanking the author of the post, offering additional information, encouraging others to seek help and get the needed therapy.

Bucky has to close the laptop and _breathe_. It’s hard and irregular and after a few minutes, his head starts to feel heavy and his fingers to tingle. He curses as he rubs his face with a shaky hand, his head tilted back on the cushion.

“Sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. calls out, voice calm but firm and Bucky opens his eyes. There’s a translucent circle of blue light in front of him. He’s about to open his mouth to question when the circle starts getting slowly smaller and J.A.R.V.I.S. instructs him to exhale. Bucky inhales when the blue circle expands again. He follows J.A.R.V.I.S.’ instructions until he can feel the floor and couch under him again.

“What…?” Bucky swallows when his voice trembles and doesn’t tear his eyes from the blue circle.

“It’s a breathing technique, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. informs him. “This one helps a person regulate their breath with a visual image.”

“Thanks.”

Bucky clenches and unclenches his fist as the feeling of ants crawling inside his veins recedes. He shakes his head and then surveys the living room, making sure it’s still day.

“J.A.R.V.I.S… Stark said he’s been searching for a therapist for me?” He clears his throat when his voice breaks.

“That is correct, Mr. Barnes. Given your peculiar situation, Mr. Stark has had a reduced list of professionals from which to choose, but he is convinced he has found the one who will be best equipped to help you.”

Bucky swallows the first thing he wants to say—_There is no way to fix this._ “Zorina, right?”

“Yes, sir, Zorina Balan.”

Bucky doesn’t do more than breathe for a few minutes, thinking it over. It’s not only that he can’t wrap his head around the fact that apparently his brain can be fixed without—

“How will she _help_ me?” Bucky’s lips twist after the word—he can’t help sounding skeptical.

“There are numerous types of therapy and Miss Balan will have to assess your symptoms before she can make sure your treatment will be tailored to your needs.” For once, J.A.R.V.I.S.’ words don’t alleviate Bucky’s nerves.

Bucky’s eyeing the closest exit when J.A.R.V.I.S. speaks again. “What I can assure you, Mr. Barnes, is that no one will harm you in any way, and I am sure Mr. Rogers would tell you that you can ask Miss Balan to leave the moment you are not feeling safe.”

Bucky drags the laptop back over his knees, nodding pensively at J.A.R.V.I.S.’ words; it does sound like something Steve would say to him. It’s difficult to believe that someone other than Steve would do what Bucky asks of them, but just imagining Steve saying J.A.R.V.I.S.’ words is enough to make Bucky hopeful. Steve’s teammates have been obliging as well so it wouldn’t be so ludicrous to believe other people will show kindness, too.

Bucky’s spent almost his whole life with HYDRA and his world had been reduced to them. If he completed his missions it wasn’t only because he knew pain would follow if he disobeyed; his brain couldn’t conceive a world beyond the HYDRA facilities and if he tried his mind would go blank. When he had listened to HYDRA agents talking about their lives, he had been able to envision them; walking their kids to school, going to the supermarket, being late because of the traffic… But it had felt like watching a movie; you see it all unfurl before you but you know it’s all fiction.

And now it’s like Bucky is part of that fiction and he fears that any moment now he will be dragged back to the real world. Bucky would rather jump from the Tower than return to HYDRA.

His hand slides from the dog tags and it types the word ‘safe’ in the search box.

_“Protected from or not exposed to danger or risk; not likely to be harmed or lost.”_

Bucky huffs a bitter laugh. Maybe he doesn’t feel safe but he doesn’t feel in immediate danger, which is as close he has been to it in the last seven decades. It will have to do.

Bucky is sucked back into the internet. There’s an overwhelming amount of information but he reads fast and the serum helps him retain everything. He reads on the history of PTSD and tries to stop thinking about it as ‘shell shock’. J.A.R.V.I.S. politely comments that he may be interested in some articles on _complex_ PTSD and Bucky huffs with something that resembles humor when he reads the definition. J.A.R.V.I.S. warns him on the dangers of diagnosing oneself with only the help of the internet and Bucky thanks him after a surprised laugh is pulled out of him.

Still, he has the need to know more about it, to make sure there are people out there with similar struggles who have achieved some semblance of control over their condition.

“Mr. Barnes?” J.A.R.V.I.S. says a few minutes later.

Bucky’s eyes are still fixed on the sentence “repeatedly witnessing violence or abuse” that’s listed as one of the causes of complex PTSD. Bucky glances down the list until he finds “torture, kidnapping or slavery” and his breath catches. He shouldn’t be taken by surprise, he reminds himself; he was expecting this. “Being a prisoner of war”, reads the last one, and Bucky’s stomach clenches. But he’s present; he’s not going to lose time, not again. Now he knows this is a pattern—a _logical_ one—that the brain follows when it’s damaged. He’s not the first person this has happened to and specialists have found new ways to deal with it and neither one involves _fucking lobotomy._

_“You are more likely to develop complex PTSD if: the trauma lasted for a long time, escape or rescue were unlikely or impossible…”_

_Where can I find the blue circle?_ Bucky thinks when a hysterical laugh is startled out of him, followed by a sob he covers with his hand.

Bucky leaves the laptop on the coffee table as if it’s on fire. He reminds himself that there’s no need to panic and he lists off the reasons he’s read online about why the brain reacts the way it does when a person is going through a flashback. Bucky is naïve enough to think it will stop the flood of panic.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.” he gasps out as he folds so he can position his head between his knees, trying to inhale through his nose and exhale through his mouth. Bucky repeats the name but doesn’t get an answer.

It’s when he leans back that Bucky notices the laptop’s screen; there is no site open but just three words on a red font blinking in the darkening living room: **“MR. ROGERS’ BEDROOM.”**

Bucky’s heart stutters in his chest. Even when his hesitation and fear last only a fraction of a second, it feels like it encompasses whole hours. Bucky gets off the couch and takes the laptop as he steps on silent feet. He chances a quick glance through the large windows to the streets below—he finds nothing suspicious that attracts his attention. Bucky gets to Steve’s room and he’s about to reach and close the door when a metal barrier slides down; the same thing happens with the windows a second later.

Bucky looks back at the laptop. **“BEDROOM SECURED.”**

There is no alarm and the only light in the room comes from the screen. If this is J.A.R.V.I.S.’ only way to communicate with Bucky, then the security systems must be compromised.

The laptop doesn’t show any new instructions or messages but there must be a reason why J.A.R.V.I.S. sent him to Steve’s bedroom and not his own. Bucky searches for a weapon and it’s not long until he finds a hunting knife between the headboard and the wall. The red light on the laptop lets him see the dust on the blade and Bucky’s almost sure he won’t be lucky enough to find a firearm.

“Steve, you punk kid,” he hisses when he checks the last drawer. There are no loose floorboards, J.A.R.V.I.S. has sealed the air vents, and Bucky knows Steve’s books are all real. So no, there are no guns—Bucky’s going to throttle Steve.

There is no way for him to leave and he only has one knife; he would like to say he’s had worse but never with so few weapons—he can only wait. Bucky grips the knife with his back wedged between the barred windows and a wall. His controlled breaths are the only sound in the room, and at some point Bucky believes he starts hearing the blood flowing through his veins. Ten minutes pass and nothing happens. The message on the laptop doesn’t change and the walls keep the red tinge that comes from the screen.

It’s after another ten minutes that Bucky hears a faint crackling noise, like a detuned radio. Bucky needs a few seconds to realize the buzzing must be coming from one of J.A.R.V.I.S.’ speakers. It stops all of a sudden but it resumes after a minute. Bucky circles the room until he finds the right speaker and uses one of Steve’s two armchairs to climb closer to hear what is being said.

_“…dob—…vozr—”_ Bucky hears a male voice say. It’s impossible to discern complete words even with his serum-enhanced hearing. The chopped words start again but this time it lasts longer. Bucky strains his hearing, either for the male voice or any other sound that could come from outside the bedroom.

_“Odin—”_ Bucky hears before the voice is cut off again. It’s definitely not J.A.R.V.I.S.’ voice but the name sounds familiar.

Bucky jumps off the armchair and heads to his previous spot. The barrier at the other side of the room groans and Bucky freezes in place; he hadn’t turned his back to the entrance and he can see that the barrier starts lifting one struggling inch after another. With three silent strides, Bucky places himself at the right of the door, the hunting knife at the ready in his steady hand.

The barrier stops moving when it’s five feet off the floor. Bucky waits with his eyes trained on the empty space at the other side of the door—no light spills from it so the rest of the windows must be barred too. The whole Tower must be on lock-down and Bucky’s first thought is Sam Wilson, who is still in a coma in the medical wing. He already knows this is HYDRA’s doing so they won’t be going for him.

Nothing else follows and Bucky doesn’t hear any noises—except for the male voice that crackles every so often from J.A.R.V.I.S.’ one speaker. Bucky crouches, and with one swift movement exits the room. He would have preferred to take the laptop to have some source of light but that would’ve meant putting away his only weapon. He had looked for a flashlight too, but there weren’t any—it made sense since Steve wouldn’t need one with his enhanced sight.

Idiot, Bucky curses mentally. He’s going to teach Steve everything necessary for an emergency kit. _Not one damn matchbox._

Bucky’s convinced he’s still alone but he combs the place just in case. After making sure, he takes the laptop and places it in the center of the apartment, the light still enough for his enhanced eyes to discern what’s around him.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Bucky calls under his breath even when he knows it will be futile.

He gets to the elevator, crouching again to pass the kitchen’s half lifted barrier. He makes sure he can’t open the door to the emergency stairs (completely barred) before he tries to push open the elevator doors. It’s way harder with only one flesh arm and he feels something pull in his shoulder, but he gets the job done. He curses Steve again and goes to retrieve the laptop so he can see how long the fall is. Bucky’s about to climb down the steel cable when he thinks twice and secures the laptop in the front of his pants and the knife between his teeth.

Nothing breaks when he steps on the cabin roof, be it one of his limbs or the laptop. He opens the safety hatch and slips into the empty cabin. His forehead beads with sweat when he opens the door enough to slide out and into a hallway. Bucky takes a moment to breathe and to make sure no one has heard his arrival.  
Everything stays dark and mute.

He’s on his feet, about to turn a corner when he hears voices. Bucky closes the laptop and places it gently on the floor. The silence had made him feel on edge and unsure of what to expect—he’d felt almost like a kid who had woken up from a nightmare and only wanted his ma to make it all better. Now that he has tangible targets, Bucky’s chest swells with rage—it’s not an emotion he has experienced while completing a mission but he welcomes it.

There are five heavy armed agents; three of them with SMGs and the other two with handguns—all five with body armor and weapons at the ready. Bucky hears their radios come to life and listens to the one at the head answer. Clear.

Just when the man is about to turn the corner and make sure everything stays clear, Bucky sinks his knife in the guy’s thigh and pulls down the muscle before anyone can react. The man screams and Bucky rips the SMG off his hand, kicking him in the head for good measure when he falls to his knees. He shoots a woman between eye and eye before the previous guy has had the opportunity to fall unconscious on the floor, and another one before anyone’s brain has had time to process what just happened.

_They shouldn’t have thought me how to use a sub with only one arm,_ Bucky thinks with something between delight and fury taking over his features. The next agent falls dead to the floor with an expression of horror etched on her face.

Bucky is retreating behind the corner when a bullet grazes his thigh and another one his cheek. He can hear the HYDRA agents radioing for reinforcements. They have turned the flashlights off, instead using their night vision goggles.

“You must be idiots,” Bucky mutters. Bullets fly as he takes the knife from the dead agent’s thing with one quick move—a bullet goes through his hand. He doesn’t hiss or take a look at the wound but takes advantage of the instantaneous light to fling the knife into the face of the person on the right, the blade going through the helmet without meeting much resistance. The last one doesn’t have time to think before Bucky is shooting at him; no grace or efficiency this time, he just shoots blindly and only stops when he hears the body thud on the carpeted floor.

There is no time to take a bulletproof vest off of one of the bodies so Bucky takes a sub that still has its mounted flashlight intact and retrieves Steve’s knife, cleaning it in the woman’s clothes and tucking it in the waistband of his pants. Finally, Bucky takes one of the radios and clips it to his sweater. He quickly discovers that this floor’s emergency stairs are also blocked—it must be the same with the rest. He checks a few vents; more of the same. It seems like there is no exit.

Bucky crawls under another half lifted barrier and finds himself in a conference room. He’s not alone. Bucky had forgotten the Tower is a building where people come to work but the suited people cowering under the table remind him of the fact. Their gasps and screams also remind him of what it means to be the Winter Soldier. No one has been scared of him for almost a week and for a short moment he thinks a HYDRA agent must have followed him. He imagines what he must look like: a one-armed man covered in blood carrying a submachine gun—it’s like he’s come from a nightmare. Bucky looks down at himself and realizes he’s barefoot as well.

“I’m one of the good guys.” Bucky cringes after hearing himself. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

No one seems to believe him. Bucky notices a young boy between the middle-aged suits, probably 22 years old. He squirms under Bucky’s too long stare as he ponders for a minute what he could do to make him stop crying.

“Do any of your phones work?” Bucky asks in a hushed tone. Seven heads shake as an answer. He was already expecting it but he had to make sure. He nods calmly.

He hears someone mumble something and he looks for the owner of the voice. “J.A.R.V.I.S. should finish rebooting—” The woman is cut off by a sob that comes from the woman that’s under her arm. She shushes her as another man starts muttering something soothing.

“Are the systems going to come back to normal?” Bucky questions the room at large, none of his anxiety seeping into his words.

“Yes,” says the young man with a firm tone. “It may take some time but it will… eventually.”

Bucky cocks his head to the side. “Stay here and don’t make any sound.” He sees a few heads nodding franticly in response and then he slips through the opening. His flashlight is turned off but it won’t really matter if they’re going to hunt him with night vision goggles.

“Fuck.” The bloody footprints he’s left lead straight to the conference room.

Bucky sees light from the direction he came, where he left the bodies. He strides to the corner where the two hallways meet and puts his back to the wall. He hears the reinforcements coming, booted feet stomping in his direction.

Bucky inhales and the Soldier is the one who breathes out, steadily. Time seems to slow down as he tracks the beam of light that comes closer… closer... One heartbeat and the Soldier feels his mind settle—but this is a different Soldier, one that’s surviving and not being a puppet on strings. He positions the sub at the right height and presses the trigger at the exact moment the HYDRA agent comes into view. The man fires but Bucky sidesteps him with ease. He lets go of his own weapon and grabs the gun from the guy’s thigh holster. Some of the agents are already firing, heedless of the command that is being shouted at them.

“Don’t kill the Asset!”

Bucky sticks his arm through the guy’s vest before his body can hit the floor and holds him up as they keep firing. The Soldier looks over his shield’s shoulder to assess the situation. He hears two agents reloading and fires at their heads. One hits its target and the other grazes a helmet—the Soldier doesn’t miss a beat and shoots at the man’s knee.

The shots should be deafening but Bucky isn’t listening anymore; not to the weapons being fired, not to the screams. He sees everything that’s taking place with an eerie kind of calmness, concentrated on the bullets hissing past him and the ones he’s sending their way, scoring bullseye almost every time he presses the trigger—the body handing from his arm is hindering his aim.

When the clip is empty, the Soldier ducks and covers himself with the bloodied body, extracting his arm from the vest and taking hold of one of the knifes the man is carrying. Breathe in, breathe out… and the knife cuts through the air. Someone yells the name of the agent that goes down, knife sticking from her goggles.

Everyone has already turned their flashlights on and gotten rid of the night vision goggles, now more of an inconvenience than any kind of aid. When less than half of the unit is left standing, the Soldier charges forward with the battered body, knowing from experience that things will go faster if he gets closer. He gets rid of the body when he throws it to his teammates, knocking a few of them down. A kick breaks the leg of one of the HYDRA still standing and a punch to the temple knocks him out.

Bucky blinks and when he opens his eyes again he’s choking someone. Blink. He’s punched someone’s face in. Blink. His foot breaks a trachea. Blink. He’s standing over the last person left. His face is bear and Bucky can see the horror in his face—he doesn’t feel any remorse as his knuckles land on flesh one time and again, the motion familiar enough. The radio still clipped to his sweater dislodges itself with the swings of Bucky’s arm and flies in an arch until it hits a wall.

His ears ring as he catches his breath, his hand pressed to the soiled carpet as he kneels over the body. Bucky shakes his head and his hair hits his face—he tastes blood on his lips. Bucky struggles to his feet, slipping over a sticky puddle and catching himself on the wall. He looks at his hand, the hole in it that’s still bleeding transfixing enough for Bucky to lose himself a couple of minutes.

Fluorescents start blinking into life and Bucky winces at the sudden brightness. He lets his eyes close for a few seconds.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.?” he tries again, voice gruff like he’s waking up from a deep sleep—but this time he didn’t lose hours of his life.

Bucky looks at the scene under the white light and he covers his mouth, afraid he’s going to start retching. He did this to survive, he reminds himself, to see Steve again, to make it to a day when he will get out of this damn Tower.

His eyes fly to the ceiling when he hears a sound come from the speakers.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.?”

Another crackle followed by the sound of the metal barriers scraping as they start lifting. He feels the tension starting to bleed out of his muscles and he fears his legs are about to give out. He knows Steve won’t be the one behind the doors—he has to finish his mission—but Bucky doesn’t care if it’s the nurse that hit him when he woke up in the medical wing as long as they get him out of here.

Him and the people still in the conference room, he remembers. Bucky turns on his feet and makes his way to the other hallway, dodging bodies.

“Hey,” Bucky’s voice cracks as he calls for the Tower’s employees to come out. “It’s safe now!” he screams, feeling the floor move under him and he has to lean on a wall and wait for everything to stop spinning.

“Hey, you can—”

Bucky hears a word crackle through the speakers, clear as day and he feels the ground being pulled under his feet. There’s a sound coming from his left and he snaps his head in that direction, his round eyes meeting with a bunch of terrified civilians. He tries to push words past his lips but the speaker comes to life again.

“Stay back!” he barks, his hand coming up as if they are the dangerous ones instead of him. “Get back inside!” They listen this time, closing the door and Bucky hears a click when it’s being locked from the inside.

_“Семнадцать,”_ the voice says and Bucky backs away until he feels a wall hit his shoulders. His face pales. _“Рассвет.”_

The doors to the emergency stairs open and Bucky sees a man with a book—a red book in his hands. He’s close enough that Bucky can hear his voice clearly but the speakers still repeat his word. _“Печь.”_

“No no no no.” The man looks at him with an expression of mild curiosity as Bucky’s knees hit the floor. He can’t cover his ears—he has the fleeting idea of stabbing them but the knife slips from his trembling fingers.

Bucky gets to his feet before the man can pronounce the next word and he staggers through the hallways.

_“Девять.”_

He enters an empty room and closes the door as if it will stop anyone from getting to him.

_“Добросердечный.”_

He tries breaking the speakers but his head already feels foggy, his legs numb. He crashes to the floor. His eyes scan the room with panic but his vision blurs.

_“Возвращение на родину.”_

_They can’t do this. Please don’t please._

“Oh God, Steve,” he hears himself mumble through numb lips.

He gets to his feet, leaning his weight on the table, and stumbles to the windows; he can see the sky and the streets and the buildings below. No one is coming for him. His mind is slipping, like water between fingers.

_“Один.”_

He flings a chair to the windows and it lands on the floor in pieces. He tries his way with his fist but the glass won’t crack.

The Soldier rests his cheek against the cold glass and wonders if he ever had a mother.

And the last words are said.

_“Товарный вагон.”_

And it doesn’t matter anymore.

_“Солдат?”_ asks a figure looming over him. He opens his mouth to answer but a stun baton hits his abdomen, the voltage running through his body until the Soldier's head hits the glass and he sinks into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realizes this fic is like 70% whump.
> 
> Listening to The Punisher’s soundtrack (the tv show) while writing this was such a great idea… until at some point I almost started writing Bucky as if he was channeling Frank and had to switch to the CAtWS soundtrack lol  
I don’t always enjoy reading fight scenes but I enjoyed writing this sooooo much—I’ve always thought I can’t write this kind of narrative but I don’t feel like it was complete trash.
> 
> I hope life is treating you kindly.
> 
> Drop a comment and make my day!


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